Chasing Ghosts Part I
by Tyranusfan
Summary: Steve begins his search for Bucky, and the Winter Soldier begins his own quest. The answers they both seek may be found as much in the past as they are in the present.
1. Chapter 1

_Set after the earlier pieces in this series: "Visiting Hours" and "Breaking the Leash."_

_Special thanks to geminigrl11 as usual for her editing skill, and to uminoko and ink-phoenix on Tumblr, for some inspiration in later chapters. _

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

**Chasing Ghosts, Part I**

**Chapter 1**

_Present Day_

_Two Months After the Fall of S.H.I.E.L.D._

When Sam Wilson had volunteered to help Steve find his friend Bucky Barnes, a.k.a. the Winter Soldier, a.k.a. the man who'd torn the wings right off his back, a.k.a. the man who'd nearly murdered all of them...well, he'd just wanted to help. He wanted to help Steve, and not just because he was his newest friend. From his work at the VA, Sam knew the kind of trauma soldiers brought home with them, and he quickly saw a similar kind of damage in Steve's eyes inside of his first two encounters with the super-soldier.

Not that it wasn't hidden well.

In person, Steve's eyes showed things that even the most accurate depictions of him in the Smithsonian missed. Steve was a patriot, a great military leader, a fantastic tactician, and an all-around great guy. Being called his friend was an honor, and Sam _was_ honored. But, the man carried around a lot of guilt, too. He'd seen the horrors of war up close, and war had clearly left its claws in him.

With Steve's sudden reappearance and the media's obsession after the Chitauri invasion, it was easy to forget that, for him, the Second World War and all its calamitous events weren't the history of seven decades ago: they were _two years ago_. For all intents and purposes, it might as well have been 1947 from Steve's perspective. The fact that he was functioning at all—let alone saving the world from aliens and taking down evil organizations bent on subjugating the planet—was nothing short of amazing.

But Sam really _wasn't_ surprised when the darkness in his new friend's eyes started to grow after his encounters with Barnes. HYDRA? Alien invaders? That was business as usual for someone like Cap. His best friend, whom he thought long dead, showing up as a brainwashed killing machine? His best friend spending half a century being tortured and programmed by the enemy?

_ Even when I had _nothing_, I had Bucky._

Sam couldn't imagine what thoughts must have been running through Steve's head, but he could see the damage it was doing plain on his face.

He had trouble not imagining the same thing happening to Riley. The only real comfort was that he had seen his wingman blown out of the sky, had witnessed Riley's lifeless body afterward. Never in his lifetime would Sam have thought he'd be describing that as a blessing.

They'd been searching for Barnes for five weeks, within days of Steve leaving the hospital. Every viable location in D.C. canvassed, even the morgues. But, like Natasha had said, Barnes was a ghost.

Tony Stark—another person Sam never in his life thought he'd get to meet—had been funneling information to them, lists of possible sightings, known underworld safe houses, unusual police reports, John Does, even a few HYDRA rat holes.

Cap swept through those with brutal efficiency. The FBI had a few dozen new prisoners to question—or would whenever they were released from the hospital. Sam had never seen anything like it. Cap embodied the phrase "one man army." Seeing him wage his own private war on HYDRA? Sam almost felt sorry for them. Almost.

After each, Steve was on his phone, reporting in to...someone. Sam didn't know the details, but he knew a White House number when he saw one. He'd even overheard the President's name dropped once. He had no idea what Steve was doing reporting to Ellis, but he had suspicions. If anyone had the balls to go straight to the top of the food chain in this search for his friend, it was Steve.

Not that Steve read him into any of that. The man certainly played his cards close to the proverbial vest. All he'd admitted to was that Sam wouldn't need to worry about his job at the VA, and that he'd made a deal that would help them find Bucky. When the first direct deposit paycheck had appeared in Sam's bank account from the DoD, and a letter about his Air National Guard status containing the words "returned to Active Duty" and "Detached Service" arrived via courier, well...Sam decided to trust his new friend Steve when Steve asked him to.

Steve had, after all, received a letter from the Army Department from the same courier.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

Whatever success they might have rooting out the enemy, so far, Sam knew Barnes was the only thing on Cap's mind. HYDRA was an obstacle. One from which Steve was extracting no small measure of revenge, but merely an obstacle, nonetheless.

They'd been switching off driving. Sam could usually talk enough for both of them, but he couldn't help but notice that Steve was talking less and less as their quest dragged on with no sign of Bucky.

They were halfway to Cleveland and another lead. The last two days, Steve had alternated between feverishly translating the Soviet files Natasha had given him, and staring sightlessly out the window. Sam noticed that he'd been stuck on one page for a long while.

"You expecting to find some hidden message in there?"

"Won't know unless I find one," Steve muttered, not looking up from the page he was studying.

Steve would talk about their search. He'd talk about new information from Stark, or the occasional call from Natasha...he _wouldn't_ talk about Bucky unless it was regarding finding him, fixing him, and making him better. In that order. Steve refused to entertain any notion that Barnes was beyond help. In fact, Steve flatly rejected _any_ negative opinion on the matter: Sam's, Nat's, Stark's, anyone's.

After twelve hours of seeing nothing but the side of Steve's head, though, Sam started to feel that he should be addressing the elephant in the car.

"You know, you need to pace yourself, man," Sam began gently, leaning on the casualness of their newfound friendship. "This 'mission' of ours might take _time_, and you're going to burn yourself out."

Steve still didn't look up. "It's already taking time, and I have a little more energy to spend than most people, if you haven't noticed."

His tone of voice was oddly flat. Disinterested. It screamed_ I don't want to talk about it_.

Sam knew a lot about Steve, not just from first hand experience or jumping into battle with him, but from reading about him growing up. Not all the historical accounts were as romanticized and propagandized as the wartime films or the Smithsonian exhibit. There'd been more than one honest account written over the years. Even those didn't quite synch up with the man sharing the car with Sam, but they were a good account of the facts.

Sam told Steve as much.

"From all that, you know what leapt off the page at me?" He asked, watching Steve out of the corner of his eye.

"Do tell." Steve replied, his voice shifting from disinterest to the subtle impatience it fell into around ignorant reporters and the amateur history buffs he often encountered.

Sam took a deep breath and plunged right into it. "The time frame between Bucky's death on that train, and you diving Schmidt's plane into the ice. Barely a month."

_That_ got Steve's attention. He looked up, eyeing Sam, then the road, then Sam again. Steve scoffed. "You think I wanted to _kill myself_?"

"I think survivor's guilt can make people do a lot of things they wouldn't ordinarily consider doing. Try to atone for things that aren't their fault."

Steve watched him for a moment, then chuckled. It was an ugly sound. "That's not what happened."

Sam arched an eyebrow, gaze firmly on the road ahead of them, but shrugged. "If you say so."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the car. Three miles ticked by on the odometer before either of them uttered another sound.

"Okay. Let's assume for a moment that you're right. Let's assume on some level I was trying to make up for letting Bucky _die_..." Steve began, voice flinty. Sam practically felt the temperature in the car falling, and for an absurd moment, let himself imagine that maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't completely thaw Steve out when they found him. "What would you say?"

Sam took a few breaths, keeping his voice calm. He tried to settle into the same demeanor he had during his group therapy sessions. It was a little harder to maintain when the person he was addressing was a friend.

"First, you _didn't_ _let_ Bucky die. Let's get that out there right now. Second," Sam tried to smile and lighten the mood a little. "I'd say thank God you're tougher to kill than you look."

Steve didn't respond. His eyes dropped back to a photo paper-clipped to a document about midway through the file folder. Sam had seen it before. It was the Winter Soldier, sometime in the 1970s, in the cryo tank HYDRA kept him in between missions. Even to Sam's eyes, it didn't look—that time, at least—like Bucky had gone in willingly. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the backstory on that one. _No, I am sure_.

When Steve didn't say anything else, Sam turned the question around on him. "What would _you_ say?"

Steve flipped the folder closed and stared out the window. "I'd say God has a sick sense of humor."

They didn't speak again until it was time to stop for the night.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

Sam woke up to a soft tapping noise. He'd slept all through the night—_a first_, he thought, since coming back from Afghanistan. It had probably been all the driving the day before, which was always exhausting to him. He preferred flying.

Turning his head, he registered that it was just after 6:00 AM, and Steve was already showered and dressed, reclining on his bed, fidgeting with his Starkphone.

They usually went running together in the mornings, but it looked like Steve was either skipping, or had already gone on his own. A sign of the distance that had suddenly grown between them the previous afternoon.

"Thought I'd let you sleep in, you looked tired," Steve said softly. His voice and expression were carefully neutral, but at least they weren't as chilly as yesterday.

Sam grunted in reply. He usually wasn't sociable until he'd at least had a cup of coffee. In a fluid motion, he rolled off the bed and grabbed some clothes, heading for the shower.

When he came out, Steve hadn't moved. Sam eyed him in the mirror while he shaved, not realizing until then just how _alone_ Rogers looked, even around other people. It made Sam feel bad—a little—about their conversation in the car. The therapist in him said it was necessary, but the friend said it was a shitty thing to ambush the guy that way.

"You feel like getting breakfast?" Sam asked carefully, zipping up his shaving kit.

"Sure."

"How 'bout that pancake place we passed on the corner?"

"Sounds good."

There were a few moments of silence while Sam finished up in front of the mirror. Then he heard Steve sit up on the bed. "Sam...I'm sorry. 'Bout taking your head off in the car, yesterday."

Sam suppressed a frown, since Steve _hadn't _actually taken his head off...and that scared him, truth be told. He'd rather Steve have an outburst. Release at least some of the pressure that Sam could see building up behind that stoic expression.

"It's just," Steve gestured at the file on the nightstand helplessly. "I'm reading about everything that they did to him and it's...it's making my blood boil."

Sam sighed and leaned against the sink. "I know, Steve."

Steve held up his phone. "Tony texted me. Said that HYDRA hole in Cleveland is the real deal, and it's a big one. I called Rhodey, he's going to meet us there tonight with some of the local FBI."

Sam's brow furrowed, but he nodded. _Always another mission_. At least he'd get to meet the Iron Patriot in person.

"It's my day to drive," Steve said as he stood. They had been taking turns driving in a two-day cycle, an arbitrary arrangement Steve had suggested.

Sam knew how to extend an olive branch, too. "No, I'll take another day. I want you to do something for me, instead."

Steve tilted his head in curiosity.

"I want you to tell me some stories about Bucky," Sam finished. When Steve opened his mouth, he continued by pointing at the folder. "Not _that_. Not who he is now. I want to hear stuff from the old days. I want you to give _me_ a reason to keep going."

He was smiling at that last part, and was pleased when Steve returned it. "I...know a few good stories."

Sam grinned. "Start with those. Then, move on to the bad ones."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Chasing Ghosts, Part I**

**Chapter 2**

_Five Weeks Ago_

The words "Captain America" used to open a lot of doors in the '40s. Turned out, the magic in those words hadn't faded much. The Pentagon had a lot of doors, but Steve had only needed to get through one.

He had been waiting patiently for almost fourteen minutes when the general came back to his office suite.

"Well, well," the man drawled in his thick Kentucky accent. "Steve Rogers, as I live and breathe."

Steve stood quickly, naturally coming to attention, but stuck out his hand in lieu of saluting. "General Rayburn, sir."

Lieutenant General William Rayburn—Wild Billy to his friends—accepted the handshake, but clucked his tongue. "Now, none of this 'General, sir' stuff, Rogers, I told you to call me Bill."

Rayburn was in charge of the Army's Personnel Department, or G-1, and had helped Steve sort out his status after S.H.I.E.L.D. recovered him from the Arctic. It helped immensely that Rayburn was the youngest son of Chester Rayburn, who'd been a sergeant in the 107th in 1943, alongside one Bucky Barnes. He and Steve had hit it off immediately.

Steve grinned and motioned around the room. "I see retirement still hasn't caught up with you, Bill."

"They'll have to blast me out of this office," the gray-headed man quipped, motioning for Steve to move into his private office. Once inside, safely behind closed doors, the general arched an eyebrow. "I notice a little stiffness, there, Steve. Are you supposed to be out of the hospital this early?"

Steve smirked. "Docs said I was making the other multiple gunshot wound patients jealous. They _booted_ me out."

Rayburn circled around to his chair and sat, gesturing for Steve to do the same. "Still, must be _something_ up for you to fight through six security checkpoints to see me."

Steve smiled ruefully. The aftermath of the battle and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s collapse had made getting into any governmental building a massive headache, even for the personnel who worked in them. "I, uh...I need a favor, Bill. A big one."

"I doubt there's anyone in D.C. that wouldn't grant you anything you asked for, Cap," Rayburn mused quietly, obviously waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop.

"Actually, it's not for me. I'm here on behalf of a prisoner of war. He's been held captive for a long time, and I'm going to need help getting him settled once he's brought home."

Rayburn's interest was clearly piqued. "This POW have a name?"

Steve took a deep breath. _Here we go_... "Sergeant James Barnes."

The general blinked a few times, as though he hadn't heard what Steve said. Then he frowned and leaned back in his chair. "Um...would this be the same Sergeant Barnes who saved my old man's life in a German camp in 1943?"

Steve swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"_Bucky_ Barnes. The Howling Commando. Fell to his death in 1944..._that_ James Barnes?"

"That's right, sir."

Rayburn eyed Steve closely. "Are you sure you should be out of the hospital this soon, Steve?"

"Bill, I know how it must sound—"

"Do you?" Rayburn arched an eyebrow. "Steve, my dad told me and my brothers a hundred different stories about Bucky Barnes. North Africa, Italy, Azzano... Now, I know _your_ story, Cap, but if I hadn't _met_ you, I'd've never believed it, and by your own reports, Barnes died in the Alps seventy years ago. Now, you're saying he's still alive."

Steve sighed softly. He'd reached the point of the story where most people stopped listening and started arguing. "You watched the news the last few weeks? Some of my friends and I were ambushed near Virginia Avenue by a hit squad. A lot of collateral damage. Most of it by an assassin with a metal arm."

Rayburn's face stayed neutral. He was probably a hell of a poker player. "That's Barnes. The guy with the arm?"

Steve filled Rayburn in on the entire story, shying a little away from the "assassin for HYDRA" parts but staying completely upfront about the torture, apparent mental conditioning and amnesia aspects. The old SSR files were very detailed about the various atrocities HYDRA inflicted on their prisoners. Steve had read them all back in '43 after Bucky's first stint as a POW, though he'd kept that fact from Bucky. He hadn't felt great about prying, but he'd only been trying to look out for his friend. Bucky had read all of the reports from Steve's myriad doctor visits in the '30s when Steve hadn't wanted to talk about it, and turnabout was fair play. He'd just sidestepped telling Buck to avoid getting a punch in the mouth. Steve wasn't entirely comfortable discussing it all with other people now, even seventy years later, but he needed Rayburn to understand that Bucky...wasn't _Bucky_ when he'd been under Pierce's control.

When he finished his tale, Rayburn was fidgeting silently with a pen, eyeing Steve. "Any clue how he's still alive and...well, still _young_?"

Steve frowned. "We're...still working on that part. Some of my friends are suggesting something called 'cryogenics.' But, we really don't have any evidence, yet."

"That's where they freeze someone, right?"

"Yes, sir." Steve shrugged. "It's our best guess right now."

After a long period of silence, the general spoke. "I assume that Barnes is still out there, somewhere, since he didn't come with you. I'm guessing you don't know where he is, either."

"I'm going to find him," Steve replied firmly. "But, I need to know I'll have— He's not himself right now, Bill. He needs help."

Rayburn sighed, eyes drifting to study the pictures on his wall for a few moments. One of them was a photo of his father and Bucky taken in Morocco in 1942. Steve had seen it when he'd first met the general. "Look, Steve, getting Barnes POW status and all that...it's doable. It'll be a mountain of the strangest paperwork I've ever had to sign off on, but it won't be impossible. But, you've got a much bigger problem."

Steve blinked. "What's that?"

"Barnes isn't just a POW. He's a terrorist. He was seen on television shooting up the freeway. Blowing up police cars—_with policemen inside_. You were there, you know what went down better than I do."

"I know he—"

"Steve," Rayburn interrupted. "Think for a second. The people who sent him after you are dead. Even with knowledge that HYDRA is still out there, Barnes is the most visible character on the board. Congress, the FBI, the public, they're all going to want a pound of flesh for what went down in the streets _and_ over Roosevelt Island."

Steve deflated a little. He'd been running on fumes ever since leaving the hospital, and hadn't stopped to really consider the depth and breadth of the trouble Bucky was facing. He'd been focusing on finding his friend, not the notion of defending him to the masses.

"What he _needs_ is immunity from prosecution." Rayburn added suddenly.

Steve blinked. "Immunity?"

"Yeah, and fast, before the yahoos in Congress who've been grilling Romanoff get Barnes in their sights. I can get the paperwork ready for when _and if_ you find him and bring him in, but unless you get DoJ to sign off on him, this is all pointless."

"So," Steve said slowly, trying to iron out his options. "I should be beating down the Attorney General's door?"

Rayburn laughed bitterly. "Have you seen the news? The Bureau and the Capitol Police are all in knots over S.H.I.E.L.D. falling, and the AG, she's busy lining up the survivors of Pierce's cabal in front of a firing squad...you won't get the time of day over there."

"If not them, where would I begin?" Steve asked.

"Have you tried calling your Congressman?" The general replied with a coy smile.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Steve smiled ruefully. "From the hospital. Turns out she was a HYDRA sleeper agent. Got arrested two days ago."

Rayburn chuckled and shook his head. "Ain't that a kick in the pants."

Frowning in frustration, Steve spread his hands helplessly. "So, what do you suggest, Bill?"

The general smiled deviously. "Off the record? I suggest you go over their heads, Cap."

Steve pondered that for a moment, then nodded and stood. He already had an idea about how to go about that. "Thanks, Bill. I appreciate the help."

"Anytime." Rayburn stood, shaking Steve's hand once more.

Steve turned and headed for the door, only to be stopped when Rayburn called after him. "Hey, Cap? If that really is Barnes...bring him home, would ya? I'd love to be able to show my kids that their grandpa's stories were all true."

"Yes, sir." Steve smiled and left the office.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS CAP **

_Three Days Later_

The French doors in the waiting area opened sooner than Steve anticipated. He'd only been waiting for precisely twenty-three minutes. A stocky man with salt and pepper hair stepped through, extended his hand, and smiled politely at him. "Captain Rogers? I'm Roy McCrerey."

Steve stood, returning the handshake. "Nice to meet you."

McCrerey smiled. "It's an honor to meet _you_, sir. If you'll follow me?"

Steve followed him through the double doors, past the Marine sentry, into the West Wing of the White House. "I gotta admit, I didn't think the President's Chief of Staff would see me without an appointment."

McCrerey glanced at him briefly, expression unreadable. "The name Steve Rogers gets attention when it shows up on a guest list, Captain."

Steve kept pace with the shorter man, eyeing the rooms as they walked down the hallway. He frowned when he noticed they didn't stop at the door placard labeled "Chief of Staff," but kept moving down the corridor. "Um, I think we—"

He noted a change in the layout as the staffer stopped in front of a different door.

"If you'll step through here, please?" McCrerey's mouth had shifted into a faint smirk as he held open the door to the Oval Office. He lowered his voice. "I told you, sir, your name on a guest list gets attention."

Stepping into the room, Steve immediately spotted President Ellis, who was reading a report behind his desk. The gray-haired man looked up and broke into a grin, all but bounding out of his chair and around the desk. "Captain! When I said I'd see you in person next time, I didn't think it'd be this soon."

Steve stood at attention as he shook Ellis' hand. "I'm honored you'd see me at all, Mr. President. Especially on such short notice."

"Are you kidding? My kids would disown me if they found out you'd been in the building and I hadn't invited you in!" Ellis gestured toward the sofas. "Please, have a seat. So, what brings you here, Captain?"

Silently hoping that Ellis proved as open as Rayburn, Steve launched into Bucky's story. As he had with the general, he didn't spare the darker parts of what he knew of HYDRA's torturous machinations. As he came to the end of his narrative, Steve didn't pull punches about the Winter Soldier and the recent battles on the streets of the District. He couldn't afford to play coy or protect his best friend's privacy, not if he wanted to get the assistance he needed from the President of the United States.

Ellis, for his part, listened to the story with a mixture of surprise, fascination and horror. He interrupted occasionally to clarify a point, but otherwise took in the tale in silence. When Steve wrapped up, Ellis pulled off his glasses and sighed.

"My God, Steve...I'm so sorry. They've kept one of our boys prisoner all this time. It's...horrifying."

"I appreciate that, sir." Steve answered soberly. "And, that's actually why I'm here. I'm going to find Sergeant Barnes and bring him home. He's been a prisoner of war for far too long. I owe him, as his C.O. and as his friend." Steve's eyes dropped to the coffee table between them. "I owe him more than that. But, I can _start_ here."

Ellis, to his credit, didn't question any of it. "Have you talked to the DoD?"

Steve nodded. "I have, sir. They're willing to grant Bucky POW status and anything else he might need, but I was told they wouldn't be able to do anything about the criminal charges he might be up against. HYDRA gave the orders, but it was Bucky who shot up—"

"You need him pardoned," Ellis cut in, nodding quickly. "I get it, Cap."

The President chewed his lip for a moment, then stood and walked to one of the windows facing the Rose Garden. Steve waited silently, knowing this was the so-called Moment of Truth. If Ellis helped him, it meant Steve had taken a huge step forward in helping Bucky. If he didn't...

Ellis chuckled softly, shaking his head as he stared out the window. "Captain America needs my help. After everything you've done for your country, son, there shouldn't be any favor too big for you to ask..." He turned, a troubled expression on his face. "But, I'm the Commander-and-Chief, Steve. _I_ need something from _you_."

Steve's eyes narrowed slightly, not sure what was coming, but he tried to keep his expression calm. "Sir?"

The President settled against the edge of his desk, fixing Steve with a stern look. "I was elected in 2012 on a wave of hysteria. New York City had been invaded by _aliens from outer space_. I've been at this game a long time, and I have no illusions about why I beat out a very popular incumbent. I campaigned on a platform of making this country _safe_. But, in the last eighteen months, that psychopath the Mandarin kidnapped me right off Air Force One, my Vice-President turned out to be a traitor, and now, we find out that Alexander Pierce was building his own personal HYDRA cult inside the world's most sophisticated intelligence and security agency, all while using one of our own war heroes as his pet assassin against his will—not to mention the damage to _your_ reputation, Captain."

Steve glanced downward. He'd been part of that, too, even if he hadn't known it. Ultimately, he was as guilty as Nick Fury when it came to not having seen the serpent hiding under his nose. Ellis, however, didn't seem interested in Steve's culpability.

"To be frank, my administration has faced one national security disaster after another. So, I'll make a deal with you, Steve. I'll do whatever is necessary to help you find your friend and get him whatever help he needs. Treatment, amnesty, the whole shebang. In exchange, you're going back on active duty."

Steve blinked. "Excuse me?"

Ellis shrugged. "You were never really off the active list, Cap. They kept you listed as MIA after 1945, and technically, as far as the Pentagon was concerned, you were on detached duty to Fury. So, liberty's over, soldier. I want HYDRA out of our borders. Hell, I want them off the planet, but first things first. We start here at home."

Steve wasn't sure going back to the Army was the best idea. He needed to focus on Bucky, first and foremost. Hunting down HYDRA was a full time job. "Mr. President—"

The older man held up his hand. "I don't expect you to wear the uniform full time. You'll have complete autonomy while searching for Barnes. But, HYDRA needs to go and that hall in the Smithsonian tells me that you're the man to do it. Pick whoever you need, Army, Navy, Air Force, hell, call in those Avengers of yours, I don't care. The only man I insist on attaching to you is Colonel Rhodes. He needs to be included."

"Rhodey's a good man," Steve conceded with a smile.

"Damn right he is," Ellis smiled in return. "Frankly, my administration put a lot of effort into putting him in the spotlight of our national security, and we need the public to see that's still where our priorities lie, especially now, considering that I'm going to have to go on TV tonight and declare S.H.I.E.L.D. a _terrorist_ organization.

"You go ahead and find Barnes, bring him home. But, HYDRA's got to be number two on your list. Eighty or ninety percent of your time will still be yours, but you'll be on the Army payroll again. Every now and then they might call you in...training, an op here and there, even some old fashioned PR. Trust me, we need all the good PR we can get, right now. People are scared, and you still carry a lot of weight publically. If you can give me that, I will make sure you have all the help you need to save your friend. You have my word."

Steve let the words soak in for a moment. "You...sound like you've put a lot of thought into this, sir."

Ellis leveled a sly grin at him. "You were already going to get another video call this afternoon. You just beat me to the punch by showing up."

Nodding, Steve stood and drew himself to attention in front of Ellis' desk. "HYDRA made this personal for me, sir. They were already on my list. I'll do whatever you want if it means I can help Bucky." He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. There was always going to be a price, and now he knew what it was. "You have a deal, Mr. President."

The President stood and offered his hand. Steve accepted, but didn't let go right away. "But, I need this is _writing_."

Far from being offended, Ellis laughed out loud. "Ha! Good man! You've learned how Washington works already. Hang around for a bit. I'll have some lunch sent up, get the White House Counsel up here and we'll draw up a contract."

Steve smiled. "Very good, sir. Uh, one more person I'd like along with me...?"

"Name 'em."

"Sam Wilson, Air National Guard. He's a counselor over at the VA."

Ellis snapped his fingers. "Wilson, Wilson...he's the one with the wings, right?"

"That's right. I'd like him in addition to Colonel Rhodes. He'll need a paycheck if he's coming with me."

"Done," Ellis gestured to the sofas again. "Now, get settled in while I make the calls." He smiled again. "I get to tell my son I ate lunch with Captain America, today."

Steve sat, rolling the conversation over in his mind. Going back to the Army was unexpected, but didn't chafe as much as he thought it might after two years working for S.H.I.E.L.D. In a way, he was finally coming home. Ultimately, wearing the uniform again, even if only part-time, was a bargain if it meant he had official support for finding Bucky.

He was signing papers in General Rayburn's office by the afternoon.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS CAP **

_The Next Day_

The graveyard was peaceful. A soft breeze ruffled the green foliage around them. Steve might have appreciated the calm—especially after the insanity of the past two weeks—but the dark thoughts racing around his mind prevented it. Staring at the polished new tombstone before them, he couldn't help but think of another, marking an empty grave in Arlington.

"So, you've experienced this sort of thing before?"

Steve almost shot back with _"No, I've never experienced my best friend trying to kill me after being brainwashed for half a century" _before he realized that Nick Fury was talking about seeing one's own grave from the outside. He'd missed the funeral while he was laid up in the hospital, but from what Natasha had said, it was a fairly low-key affair. Appropriate for one of the world's greatest spymasters.

He shut down the bitter train of thought and shrugged, aiming for amiable but probably missing by miles. "You get used to it."

Fury didn't seem to notice his barely suppressed attitude. "We've been data-mining HYDRA's files. Looks like a lot of the rats didn't go down with the ship."

Frowning, Steve returned his gaze to Fury's headstone. The escape of many HYDRA operatives from S.H.I.E.L.D. was troubling, but expected. There'd been so many it had always been unlikely that they were all aboard the Helicarriers or caught inside the Triskelion. In a way though, it would aid Steve's upcoming efforts. It was always easier to spot nests when bugs were moving around. He mentioned none of that, or his own personal mission, to Fury. Steve could compartmentalize, too. If the satisfaction of keeping Fury in the dark felt a little petty, so be it.

"I'm headed to Europe tonight," Fury continued. "Wanted to ask if you'd come."

Steve kept his gaze down. "There's something I have to do first," He said, not slamming the proverbial door on Nick, but not committing to anything, either. Bucky was his only priority at the moment.

Nick turned to Sam, who'd been quietly watching Steve that whole time. "What about you, Wilson? I can use a man with your abilities."

Sam was watching Steve so closely that it made Steve think Sam was seeing right through him. _Am I that transparent?_ Natasha had said he was a terrible liar, but Steve never realized that he was such an open book. Had he always been? _Maybe I'm just getting old_.

He _felt_ old.

"I'm more of a soldier than a spy," Sam answered easily.

Fury nodded, face hard to read behind his dark sunglasses. "All right, then." He shook hands with Sam and Steve in turn, then motioned toward his grave. "Anybody asks for me, tell 'em they can find me right here."

He moved off, leaving Steve and Sam alone at the grave. Natasha's voice cut through the silence as she approached from the other side of the cemetery. "You should be honored. That's about as close as he gets to saying 'thank you.'"

Steve smiled faintly, turning to meet her. Any animosity that had grown between them after the incident on the _Lemurian Star_ had faded a lot during his stay in the hospital. Bigger forces had been playing her as much as they played him. Steve felt that he understood her somewhat better, now that it was all over. He nodded in Fury's direction. "You're not going with him?"

"No," She answered emphatically. His smile slipped some.

"But, you're not staying here..."

Natasha smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I blew all my covers. I gotta go figure out a new one."

"That might take a while," Steve replied.

"I'm counting on it." She looked genuinely happy about it. She paused, watching him for a moment before holding out a thick, aged file folder. There was Russian script on the cover. "That thing you asked for...I called in a few favors from Kiev."

Steve didn't want to think about the kind of favors she must have been owed to find it. He eyed the old KGB file like it would bite him, but took it.

Before he could open it, she continued. "Will you do me a favor?" He looked up and eyed her questioningly. "Call that nurse?"

Arching an eyebrow, Steve couldn't help but smile a little. "She's _not_ a nurse."

"And you're not a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent," she shot back.

It was true; Steve couldn't hide behind the co-worker taboo anymore. He had genuinely liked Kate...even though that wasn't her name and he hadn't known she'd been there to spy on him. _Guard _him, whatever. "What's her name, again?" _Her _real_ name_...

"Sharon. She's nice." Natasha said, smiling almost sadly.

Steve smiled too. This was goodbye, for a while at least. He couldn't say he was happy to see her go. He'd gotten used to having her at his side the past two years. Natasha seemed to share his wistful look, leaning in to plant a soft kiss on his cheek before turning to leave the way she had come.

He watched her as she walked away, not wanting to look at the file folder. As much as he needed to see what was inside...he didn't _want_ to.

"Be careful, Steve," Natasha's voice cut into his darkening thoughts. He looked up at her, now several yards away. She pointed to the folder. "You might not want to pull on that thread."

He nodded slightly to her. He definitely didn't _want_ to. Steve watched her go, waiting for her to be at her car before opening the file. On the inside cover he was confronted with a photo of Bucky, seen through the metal frame of a cryogenic chamber. The sight of it, juxtaposed against a small snapshot of Bucky as a soldier during the war...Steve's fingers tightened on the folder.

"You're going after him," Sam said. Steve hadn't noticed him approach.

Steve knew better than to play coy. Sam had been reading him with amazing accuracy since they'd met. "You don't have to come with me."

"I know," Sam said quietly. "When do we start?"

Steve had known what that answer would be, as well. He took a breath and tore his eyes away from Bucky's frozen face. "We just did."

Sam grunted softly. "And, uh..._where_ do we start?"

Turning to look his newest friend in the eye, Steve couldn't help but smile a little. He gestured for Sam to follow toward the car. "We need to make a stop in New York, first. Tony's almost finished with your new wings."

To say Sam's face lit up like Christmas morning would have been an understatement. Steve shared his joy for a moment, before Bucky rose in his thoughts again.

"Do you trust me, Sam?"

"With my life," Sam replied immediately.

Steve's eyes drifted to the file again. _Maybe you _shouldn't_...doesn't always turn out well_. "We need to sit and plan out our next moves. We'll see where the ghosts lead us."

TBC

_A/N: Regarding Ellis' election to the Presidency: I noticed at the end of the Avengers, we saw Jay Carney, President Obama's recent press secretary on the TV. Next thing we know, in 2013, Matthew Ellis was president. I decided to put my own spin on the discrepancy, instead of ignoring it. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Chasing Ghosts, Part I**

**Chapter 3**

_Present Day_

_Two Months After the Fall of S.H.I.E.L.D._

_Three Hours Outside of Cleveland, Ohio_

Steve ended the call and glanced at Sam, who was squinting over the steering wheel to see better through the rain-soaked windshield. The unexpected derecho over the Midwest was not welcome. While it wouldn't cause Rhodey much trouble in the suit, the high winds might ground Falcon—even with Tony's ever-so-lauded Mark II version of the wings. "Rhodes is on site. He's going to do some reconnaissance flights over the target before we meet up with the Tac teams."

Sam nodded, keeping his eyes on the dark road. "A'ight. We might be getting there late, though, if this rain doesn't let up."

"They'll wait for us. If HYDRA tries to move out before we get there, Rhodey can slow them down."

"Well, then, let's just do some sightseeing," Sam shot back, smiling. "Okay, keep going. Story time isn't over yet, Rogers."

"Where was I?" Steve asked.

"Picture it, Brooklyn, 1943," Sam chuckled. It was a pop-culture reference, but Steve was unsure which one.

"Ah, right. Erskine had signed off on my recruitment forms, so I went home to pack. Bucky had both the girls, so I didn't expect him any time soon..."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Brooklyn Naval Shipyard_

_July 15th, 1943, 10:00 AM_

"Two weeks on this scow!" Bucky proclaimed bitterly, arm stretching out to encompass the decrepit troopship tied to the dock. "And I thought my last Trans-Atlantic trip was a gas."

Hundreds of soldiers were milling around in loose groups along the dock. A Navy band was playing nearby, trying to keep the outgoing troops entertained as they waited to board the old steamer.

"You're just upset there won't be any women on board," Steve chided from behind, trying to keep the mood light.

Bucky fixed him with a glare. "I'll have you know that after you jumped ship on me last night, our double dates gave me _plenty_ of memories to keep me company. Annabelle _alone_—"

"Stop. _Stop!_ Stop." Steve held up his hands. "I don't want that image in my brain, Buck."

"This attitude? This is why you don't do well on dates, Stevie." Bucky wagged his finger at Steve, but sobered after a moment, eyes raking up and down like he was trying to memorize what Steve looked like. "I guess this is goodbye for a while, pal."

Steve glanced at the waiting ship, then back to Bucky, who looked every bit the professional soldier in his olive green uniform and rucksack slung over shoulder. "Yeah...for a while, I guess."

Saying goodbye a second time was even harder than it had been the summer before, when Bucky had shipped out for North Africa. It had only been sheer luck that had seen Barnes' unit rotate back through New York after the invasion. They might not be so fortunate this time. Bucky was likely headed to Europe for the duration.

Steve wanted to say he'd be right behind, that Erskine had signed off on his enlistment and Steve was leaving that afternoon. But he didn't. He couldn't. The orders dropped off by the courier that morning had been very explicit: Steve was to tell no one where he was going or why.

Even without all the secrecy, Steve wasn't sure his enlistment was even going to work out. He didn't want to tell Buck that he'd got in, then fail out of the program. Basic was probably going to be humiliating enough as it was without having to face his best friend if he dropped out.

_I can offer you a chance. _Only_ a chance_.

For now, at least, Steve had to keep it to himself.

"You know," Bucky said, gaze sweeping along the busy dockyard beyond the fence. "I know you'll be mad at me for saying this, but...I'm _glad_ you didn't get in, Steve."

Rogers opened his mouth, but Bucky cut him off. "No! Not because I don't think you can do it. You can do anything you set your mind to, always have. But...I saw a lot of people bigger than you get cut to pieces over there, Steve. I just don't want to see you get hurt."

Bucky had earned his sergeant's stripes in the fighting at Kasserine Pass. He was a hero, but Steve had learned the hard way to not mention that in his presence. Instead, he just nodded. "I know, Buck."

An Army bugler appeared on the deck of the ship, sounding the call to assemble. Bucky looked at Steve, grimacing. It was time. After a moment, he huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes. "Come here, ya punk."

He stepped forward and scooped Steve into a hug. "You take care of yourself, all right? Stay outta back alleys."

"I'll do my best," Steve promised. He wouldn't be in any back alleys any time soon, but he didn't say that. "When you get to Europe, leave some of your stupid on the ship, okay?"

Bucky laughed into Steve's shoulder. "Wise guy."

He let Steve go and stepped back, taking the bag Steve had carried for him. He threw a casual half-salute and opened his mouth again, but no words came out. There was nothing left to say that they didn't both already know. Instead, Bucky just smiled and walked through the gate.

Steve watched as he moved down the steps onto the pier and toward a group of soldiers. As Bucky got close, he called out. "Able Company! Fall in!"

_Watch out for the 107th's newest sergeant, fellas_. Steve smiled to himself. Bucky could be a real ballbuster when he wanted to be. Soon, the crowd was too thick to see where Bucky had gone, so Steve turned and headed back for the train station. He had his own bags to get and an apartment to lock up.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Present Day_

"You didn't tell him?" Sam asked, shooting Steve a disbelieving look.

Steve shrugged, watching the dark interstate go by outside the rain-streaked window. "I had my orders. Project Rebirth was a huge secret back then. Heck, even _I_ didn't know the details until I got to Camp LeHigh."

"Yeah, sure, I mean, that makes sense," Sam replied. "It's just...from what you've told me, you and Bucky lived in each other's pockets. I'd've thought you'd've wanted him to know before he left."

"No..." Steve shook his head. "He had enough to worry about without me adding to it. Besides, he probably would have kicked my ass up and down that dock if I'd told him I got in. He _really_ didn't want me to enlist. He'd have flat out slugged me if he'd known it was an _experiment_."

"So, what? You were just going to turn up one day on the battlefield, 'oh, hey, Buck, look at me?'"

Steve laughed softly. "I admit, I didn't think a lot of it through at the time. But, in my defense, I didn't know I'd change so much, either." He gestured toward his body. "This was as much a surprise to me as to anyone else."

"Was that the last time you saw him before Italy?"

"_Saw_, yeah. But we wrote to each other. He'd write about once a week, or just when he could. Mail moved a lot slower then, especially with the wartime censors, so the letters were always behind. I got most of them while I was touring with the USO. I didn't think much of it when they stopped a few months later. I figured they were catching up to me as the shows made their way around the country."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_July 19, 1943_

_Dear Steve, _

_You're lucky you're not on this tub with me, buddy. We hit a storm the first night out and it hasn't let up since. It's a lot like riding the Cyclone except they never let you get off!_

_We have no idea where we are, which I suppose is a good thing, because that means the Krauts don't know where we are either. Everyone's pretty much bored out of their minds, when they aren't spewing over the side. Got a few guys who think they're the next Patton, and a lot of goofs who don't know their rifle's butt from their own._

_Our lieutenant's a real pistol, though. I like this guy a lot more than the fat-head that was with us in the 34th ID. He's nuts, but he knows his stuff. _

_On second thought, I wish you __were__ here. I hate shining my own shoes. (Just kidding, Stevie!)_

_Sincerely, _

_B. Barnes_

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_July 23, 1943_

_Dear Steve,_

_The weather finally cleared up. Lot of us were up top today, and it was a good thing, because we got a helluva show. There was a U-boat scare this morning, and we watched a couple of tin cans dropping depth charges. Don't know if they hit anything. Probably just a whale losing his blubber anyway!_

_Have you found a new job, yet? I know the Old Man likes you watching his shop, but fifty cents an hour isn't gonna pay the rent. Why don't you see if Pete will let you take my old job at the restaurant? The tips are good, and you'll meet a lot of dames that way._

_LT told us we weren't staying long when we get to _,_ just a couple of days. Then we're moving again. I'm sick of boats already. From the sound of it, big things might be coming. I don't know when I'll be able to write again, that's why I'm sending this now._

_I miss you, Stevie. _

_Sincerely,_

_B. Barnes_

_P.S. I meant what I said about talking to Pete. I know you don't have the charm, wit or good looks of the job's previous occupant, but it's good money. Think about it, okay?_

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Present Day_

_Abandoned Factory outside Cleveland, Ohio_

The high-pitched whine of the repulsor was the only warning the Iron Patriot gave the guards inside. The blast shattered the thick, armored door, sending it flying into the tunnel and taking out one guard along the way. Steve threw his shield to the left just seconds later, catching the other guard in the midsection and flinging him against the stone wall. He caught it on its return arc as he and Rhodey passed.

"Alpha team in, south side," Steve hissed into his comlink. "Falcon, call it."

Sam coordinated the entry of the other three FBI teams from his vantage point five hundred feet in the air. Steve could hear the buffeting winds through his ear piece. Luckily, the new wings had some extra features, courtesy of Tony, that made it easier for Sam to stay up in bad weather.

Steve and Rhodey made their way down the mine-like tunnel, leading beneath the ground floor of the factory and into a network of underground chambers. One of Stark Industries' satellites had detected heat signatures beneath the structure, and after some observation, Rhodes had determined that the main HYDRA base was beneath the dilapidated manufacturing facility. The tunnel extended nearly another three hundred feet before branching off in two directions.

"I go left, you go right?" Steve said quietly.

"_Got it_," Rhodes' voice filtered through the audio modulator in his red, white and blue faceplate.

Steve looked over his shoulder at the dozen FBI agents dressed in black tactical gear. "Agent Howard, you and your group stay with me. Agent Doyle, your group sticks with the Patriot."

The agents nodded, following behind them in a double file line with their rifles at the ready.

They made it a few more yards before the Patriot's armored hand shot out and pushed Steve against the left wall. "_Incoming!_"

No sooner had they ducked to the sides when a small rocket raced through the air, trailing flame and smoke, before exploding behind them near the entrance. Steve glanced up from behind his shield, and saw three squat, multi-armed monstrosities coming their way on thick tank treads. The tops of the couch-sized machines bristled with guns, rocket launchers and metal grappling arms.

Steve grimaced. "Guess Tony was right about this being a munitions lab."

"_Yeah, he's annoying when he's right_," the Iron Patriot replied, though Steve could hear the smile in Rhodey's voice even behind the armored helmet. "_I got these. You all stay behind me 'til we get down the tunnel, then go right. Tony's sat-feed says most of the bigger rooms are that way_."

The Iron Patriot dropped to a crouch, then blasted down the tunnel in flight mode. He intercepted the first robot, grabbing hold and spinning, flinging it against the far end of the tunnel. It landed on its back, immobile. The other two bots turned their attention to the Patriot, and they moved to surround him, but the hail of bullets from their guns glanced off his armor and he was able to force them back and to the left in the tunnel intersection.

Steve saw the opening, and bolted down the corridor, keeping his shield up to deflect any stray shots. He stopped at the intersection and covered as the twelve agents ran past. He rounded the corner just as he heard the Patriot's twin, shoulder-mounted minigun spooling up. Rhodey's return fire turned the noise of the fight into a deafening cacophony.

The second, shorter hallway was a double row of doors—six in all—lit only by emergency lights, since the FBI had cut the power lines outside just before they stormed the base. At the far end was a seventh door, wide and made of steel like the outer entrance. They'd have to clear the side rooms first.

Steve drew his 9mm—though he felt a little strange doing so. He hadn't carried a gun in combat since the war. The shield was usually enough, but both Sam and Rhodes had insisted, especially in case they got separated, like they just had.

He chose the first door on the right, testing the handle quietly. It was locked. He motioned to the other agents silently to take up positions at the other doors. They'd enter all the rooms simultaneously. When they were in position, Steve gave the signal to breach.

One firm chop with the shield was enough to slice the handle off, and Steve kicked the door in with his booted foot. As soon as the room was open, one of the agents behind him tossed a flash-bang inside. Six of the grenades went off almost in perfect synchronicity in all the rooms. Steve covered his face, but was more resilient than the average person, so the blast didn't affect him as badly.

Counting to three, Steve and the two agents entered. Inside, there were two men in white lab coats sprawled on the floor, coughing. They weren't a threat. Two hulking brutes in black and red body armor and steel helmets with goggled face masks, on the other hand, were. They charged.

"Hail HYDRA!"

The bigger of the two took Steve head-on, driving him back through sheer momentum into the wall beside the door. He was quick, agile even in his heavy armor. For a few moments it was like wrestling with an alligator, but Steve smashed his shield into the goon's chest, staggering him back. Using the moment of distraction, he reached out with his gloved hand and broke the strap on the man's helmet, then yanked it off. The man started choking as he inhaled smoke and gas from the grenade. Steve rushed and flipped the goon over his shoulder, slamming him hard into the concrete floor. He didn't get back up.

The two agents had brought down the second with a tazer by the time Steve turned back to them. Once the two brutes were secured, Steve glanced around the room. It was a small assembly line, apparently for the robots that Rhodey had taken on. Two more of the machines were on a platform in the center of the room, with pieces of several more in various stages of construction.

_Speaking of_...

"Rhodes, status?" Steve spoke into his mike.

"Right behind you, Cap," Rhodes said from the doorway, his faceplate raised. He glanced around the room from behind the two agents. "I see you found the birthing suite."

"You all right?" Steve asked, motioning for the FBI men to cuff the two hacking HYDRA techs sprawled on the floor.

Rhodey nodded. "Nothing a little polish won't take care of."

He stepped back to allow Steve out into the hall, then fell into step behind him, heavy metal footfalls echoing slightly in the now quiet bunker.

Agents Howard and Doyle were waiting by the last pair of doorways. Steve nodded to them and spoke quietly. "Agents?"

"Clear, Captain," Mike Howard replied quietly. "Twenty men, mostly techs, a couple of guards. All down for the count."

"Good," Steve pointed to the last door at the end of the hall. "Six down, one to go."

The four men walked to the elevator-style door. It was secured with a thick metal lock along the center, but nothing elaborate. It was difficult to tell if the lock was meant to keep people out or people in. A stenciled sign read "Bio-Engineering."

Rhodes lowered his faceplate, and extended both arms with guns and repulsors armed as Cap slammed his shield into the locking mechanism. It fell away in pieces, and Steve forced the doors to slide apart.

Inside was a small vestibule, leading to another set of double-doors. There were also two more guards, but they were no threat.

"Christ..." Doyle murmured, staring at the prone figures. Both men were staring sightlessly at the ceiling, throats slashed identically. The floor beneath with was stained red, and it looked fresh.

"Maybe an hour, tops," Howard said analytically, keeping his expression more controlled than the younger Doyle. Steve knew little about Agent Howard, just that he was one of the Bureau's most experienced counter-terrorism experts and an accomplished field commander. He glanced at Steve grimly. "Whoever did this was a professional."

Grimacing, Steve stepped past the bodies and forced open the inner door. Its lock was already broken. Inside was a lab, shelves lined with the typical test tubes and beakers, but also elaborate computer stations and testing machines. Steve led the way into the room. Rhodes flanked him, moving to the right along the wall.

There was woman in a white lab coat slumped over a desk. Howard stepped over to her and checked her vitals. "This one's alive."

"This one's not." Rhodey called out, bending over another lab-coated figure, this one a man. His throat was cut like the men outside, though worse. More brutal. There were some signs of a struggle by the scientist's workstation. A beaker smashed; a shattered computer monitor sparking.

"Why him and not her?" Doyle asked, peering around the otherwise undisturbed laboratory.

Steve frowned. The room had no windows, only one door, one large air vent in the ceiling which didn't seem to have been opened in months, judging by the dust. The outer door had been locked from the outside. He turned a complete circle, examining the room. It didn't make sense. He looked over at Rhodes.

"What happened here?"

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Present Day_

_Cleveland, Ohio_

_Four Hours Later_

"_I have part of an answer for you, Cap. Not sure if it's good news or bad news, though_."

Steve was sitting at a small, round dinette table with Wilson and Rhodes, staring at Tony Stark's face on the screen of his computer tablet. "What do you have, Tony?"

"_The evil HYDRA scientist turned pez-dispenser wasn't on any FBI watch list or mentioned in any intel Langley had, but JARVIS did some sifting through the S.H.I.E.L.D. data Romanoff uploaded and matched the face to a name. _

_"Valery Karpov. Born 1957, Russian ex-patriot, expert in cybernetics. He got on the wrong side of Putin a few years back, so he got an all-expense paid flight to America courtesy of one Jasper Sitwell. Resettled in Cleveland about a year ago_."

Karpov's passport photo appeared beside Tony's on the screen. Steve's brow furrowed and his stomach did a virtual cartwheel. _He's the spitting image_...

Sam, noticed immediately. "What?"

"Karpov..." Steve murmured.

"_Score one point for the Star Spangled Man_," Stark crowed pleasantly. "_Valery was the son of one _Vasily_ Karpov, Soviet general in World War Two, and_—"

"And the _monster_ who brainwashed Bucky after he was captured in the '40s," Steve spat, mouth curling in anger. "His name is all over the files Natasha gave me."

"Wait, wait, wait," Rhodey said from the other side of the table. "Are you implying that _Barnes_ killed this guy? _Tonight_?"

"What about the woman, Tony?" Steve asked, ignoring Rhodey's question for the moment.

"_Um...Michaela Phillips. Biochemist. No relation to Karpov whatsoever, so far as I can tell. They were just lab partners. Feds have her at the field office in Cincinnati. She isn't talking, yet_."

"And only unconscious..." Steve muttered, staring at the tabletop. "It was surgical. Karpov was the target. The rest never even knew he was there..."

Sam was frowning. "But why? Was this guy involved with the Winter Soldier somehow? Tony, you said he was into cybernetics...maybe he did work with that arm of his?"

It was JARVIS that answered, through the tablet speaker. "_No, Sergeant Wilson. Files captured by the FBI suggest a connection between Valery Karpov's work and that of Cybertek Corporation, which has been associated with illegal research into weaponizable cybernetic organ replacement and biochemical alteration. Numerous files contain references to a Project: Centipede_—"

"_Super Soldiers_," Tony interpreted. "_Surgically altered, _cyborg_ soldiers. They had some help from A.I.M., and might have gotten their hands on Extremis, but I'm still looking into that. S.H. .D. had them on their radar until recently, and their headquarters was raided. Officially, they're out of business. As to why Cap's BFF would want this guy dead, I don't know._"

"Maybe he didn't." Steve said. "They were related. Same family, same last name, similar first name. Hell, they even looked alike. Maybe this was just a case of mistaken identity."

Sam looked dubious. "Steve..."

"I _know_ I'm making a lot of assumptions, Sam." Steve cut off his friend's objection angrily. "But Bucky saved my life in D.C.. He's the _victim_ here, not the villain. If he's still putting his memories back together, he could have easily mistaken one Karpov for another. With what's in the files about Karpov and what he did...I'd want him dead, too, if he wasn't already. And let's not pretend _this_ Karpov was innocent. He was a HYDRA weapons designer."

That effectively ended the conversation.

Tony was the first to break the awkward silence that followed. "_All right, good work tonight, guys. Get some sleep. Cap, I'll keep digging and let you know if anything turns up_."

When the call ended, Rhodey confirmed the time for their debriefing the next morning and offered to help Steve put together his report for Ellis on the raid, which Steve gratefully accepted, then left for his own room down the hall.

Steve stayed seated at the table, rubbing his temples. Sam settled on the closest bed and watched him. After several long minutes, he finally spoke. "What's going through that head of yours, Rogers?"

"An hour." Steve sighed miserably. "I missed him by an _hour_, Sam."

"If you want, I'll grab my wings and we can snoop around town. He couldn't have gotten far."

Steve shook his head. "Natasha said it herself, he's trained to be a ghost. He snuck past a dozen armed men to get into that lab and evaded forty of us to get out. He's long gone."

"I'm sorry, Steve." Sam said quietly. "We'll do better next time. Okay?"

It was hard to share the optimism, but Steve nodded. "Yeah."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

The Soldier cursed himself for his clumsiness. He'd seen the signs of the coming law enforcement incursion into the HYDRA base, but had still let his escape route be cut off by one of the tactical squads. He'd barely made it into the ventilation system before the underground bunker was breached.

He had been distracted all day. He'd awoken shaking from a nightmare filled with formless, faceless shapes and harsh voices. Ever since, he'd found himself thinking in both English _and_ Russian, and the constant double-murmur of his thoughts had kept him off-balance. Ideally, he should have scrubbed the mission, but HYDRA knew their base had been discovered, and his window for action had shrunken abruptly.

Karpov hadn't been expecting him, though, that was a positive. He'd cornered and eliminated the target in less then ten minutes. The Soldier only regretted that he hadn't made the bastard suffer. His dreams had been riddled with images of the man. Every one linked to a distinct, visceral memory of pain. Karpov's face was always overlaid in his mind with memories of needles, electric shocks, deafening noise, cold rooms...

He shook off the unhappy thoughts and settled near the window of his hotel room. He'd..._liberated_ some money from the last three HYDRA cells he'd reconnoitered, along with a few different credit cards under false names from some of their uncover operatives. He'd also appropriated some long-range listening equipment from one of the FBI vans outside the factory earlier that evening. The elaborate dish and receiver was set up facing out the window of his room, aimed directly at the room across the street where Rogers—_Steve_—Wilson and the man known as the Iron Patriot, were talking.

He remembered Steve, from before. His memories were getting clearer and more detailed every day. They'd been friends. Steve and _Bucky_ had been friends. The Soldier was still on uncertain ground when it came to Bucky Barnes. It seemed indisputable that he _had been_ James Buchanan Barnes, a long time ago. What was less clear was how much of that man remained.

Some days it didn't seem like much.

Still, for the moment at least, the man provided him with an identity, a name, something more than "the Asset." For some reason, having a name felt important. He was dubious about "Bucky," even though on an intellectual level he understood the abbreviation of the middle name Buchanan. He didn't know why he had disliked the name James enough to go so completely by the nickname—even history recorded him as "Bucky," predominantly. But, in Russian, the word Bucky held a very different, and absurd, meaning.

He wasn't a vat. He didn't hold liquids of any kind!

He was leaning toward James. Definitely. It was his proper name. Moreover, the name was _his_. It had been taken away from him, like his memory and everything else, by people like Karpov. But, Steve had helped him get it back.

Whatever else he might or might not remember, James wasn't going to forget that.

He listened to Steve and his compatriots debrief after the raid. Had he known hours ago that Rogers was involved, he might have revealed himself. Once he'd discovered that fact, he'd decided to track Rogers back to the hotel where he was staying and find out why Captain America was leading Federal law enforcement agents against HYDRA.

For a world-renowned hero, Rogers was pathetically easy to find; they should talk about that. James needed to be careful, however, so gaining some information on what exactly Rogers was doing there seemed a safe first step.

Why he felt so..._uncomfortable_ doing so, he had no idea.

James settled in between the curtains, out of sight, and used the scope from his sniper rifle to peer into the other hotel room. Steve seemed healthier than he had two months prior in the hospital, but he looked tired, haggard. Perhaps he wasn't sleeping well. James could fully sympathize. He idly wondered what could give heroes like Rogers nightmares.

_Walk over there and talk to him, you coward. You almost killed him on the carrier. You should at least make amends to the man who freed you._

He silenced the aggravating thoughts and kept watching through the scope. While he observed, he listened to the audio feed. Rogers was investigating Karpov. Good. That bastard deserved to be expo— _W-what? Son?_

_"...Files captured by the FBI suggest a connection between Valery Karpov's work and that of Cybertek Corporation..."_

_"...As to why Cap's BFF would want this guy dead, I don't know..._"

"_Maybe he didn't_." Steve was saying. "_They were related. Same family, same last name, similar first name. Maybe this was just a case of mistaken identity_."

Mistaken identity.

No. No, that wasn't— James left the window, stepped over to the bed, and shuffled through his notes and printouts of files, looking for the pages on Karpov. He found the pages, saw the face. It _was_ Karpov, James was certain...except...

He stared at the file photo, taken some four decades prior. The old general's gray hair, crinkled eyes, the frown lines around the mouth... Whatever else had been done to his brain and long-term memory, James had a very good memory for mission details. He remembered Karpov's face clearly from the lab— It wasn't the man in the photo he was holding. The resemblance was striking, almost eerie. Father and son. They looked so simi—

"Bozhe moi," he muttered. "What have I...?"

He heard Steve's voice raise on the audio feed. He and Wilson were arguing, it seemed. About _him_.

"_I _know_ I making a lot of assumptions, Sam. But, Bucky saved my life in D.C.. He's the _victim_ here, not the villain. If he's still putting his memories back together, he could have easily mistaken one Karpov for another_."

Mistaken one for another.

Why was Rogers defending him? James had murdered a man just because he _looked_ like someone else who had tortured him. What was wrong with him? _What kind of...monster did they make me?_

Steve was still talking. Still making his case for James, even though he had no reason to do so."..._And let's not pretend _this_ Karpov was innocent. He was a HYDRA weapons designer_."

It was little comfort. James understood what Steve was saying. The younger Karpov was a weapons designer for a terrorist group. His work had probably resulted in the deaths of innocents, however indirectly. He wasn't innocent. But that didn't matter. James had targeted the wrong man, and carried out the attack without a second thought.

The Soldier. The other personality in his mind. It was James, but it was also the Winter Soldier. _He_ didn't question orders, he just obeyed. He killed on command. The Winter Soldier had murdered Karpov.

James Barnes was the Winter Soldier.

He had developed the mission against Karpov on his own. He'd seen the scientist's file in a HYDRA databank. He'd seen photos of the elder Karpov and just...assumed. He'd just murdered the man.

James swept the rest of his meticulous notes on HYDRA agents of interest off the bed with a cry of anger. How could he trust himself? How could— What if the Soldier inside him killed again without thinking. What if— God, what if he killed Steve?

Captain America was the last official target given to the Soldier. Pierce wanted Steve Rogers dead. James was standing not two hundred meters away from that very same Captain America, watching him through the scope of a sniper rifle! What was wrong with him?

The realization hit like a blast of ice water. Steve wasn't safe around him. He couldn't make contact. He was damaged. Dangerous. A rogue weapon. What had he been thinking?

He had to stay away. It was the only way to keep Steve safe. _Keep Steve safe_. That directive felt older than all the others. That had been _Bucky's_ directive.

_I know you'll be mad at me for saying this, but...I'm glad you didn't get in, Steve...I just don't want to see you get hurt_.

It was a strong memory. He could even remember the smells of the dockyard. It only reinforced his decision.

James had to stay away.

TBC

A/N: _The line in Bucky's letter is my attempt to show the wartime censor blacking out where the ship was heading. During the war, a lot of soldiers' mail was reviewed before being allowed out, to ensure that military details weren't accidentally or intentionally revealed. (Formatting wouldn't let me do a black bar!)_

_Also, special thanks to uminoko on tumblr for the analysis of Bucky's name in Russian. _


	4. Chapter 4

**Chasing Ghosts, Part I**

**Chapter 4**

The hotel room is colder than he remembers. James tries to sit up, but he can't. Alarmed, he looks down to find a series of thick leather straps holding him to a table. He panics, struggling to break them. He should be able to, but he can't.

A shadow passes over his face, and he looks up into a pair of pale blue-gray eyes flanked by long, dark hair. It's him—or the Winter Soldier, at least. The light from the window gleams off the metal arm, which points in his direction.

"I thought you were dead?" The Soldier asks him. Then he shrugs and turns around, facing another table. Steve is strapped down to that one. His thin, unhealthy frame looks even smaller under the heavy leather bonds, but it's definitely Steve.

The Winter Soldier stares at Steve for a moment, looming over him.

"Get away from him!" James shouts. The Soldier doesn't even look back. He climbs up on the table, straddling Steve's 95-pound body. He rears back and drives his metal fist into Steve's face. Steve doesn't even grunt. It's not right.

Three more blows and Steve's face is a bloody mess. The Soldier glances up at James, frowning in disapproval. "None of them are innocent."

The punches begin falling again. James screams impotently, straining to break the straps holding him down, but he can't. Finally, the blows stop. Steve's head turns and he's staring at James past one swollen eye and a broken nose.

"End of the line, pal."

The Winter Soldier rears his fist back again, and finishes it—

"NO!" James jackknifed off the pillow, scattering the papers that surround where he'd fallen asleep on the bed. He panted, trying to catch his breath. His metal arm was stretched behind him. He turned his head to see what it was snagged on, and found the wooden headboard in splinters where his hand gripped too tight. He released it, shaking the wood shards and sawdust off his arm.

His arm. The Winter Soldier's metal arm. The arm that nearly beat Steve Rogers to death aboard the Helicarrier. The arm that had strangled his handler in Washington. The arm that had held Valery Karpov still while he stabbed the knife into his throat.

James shook off the absurd line of thought. Arms didn't kill people. It was an appendage. The metal arm was as much a part of him as the other, flesh one.

That was the problem.

HYDRA gave him the arm. Gave him his missions. Gave him a purpose when he couldn't think of one himself. An evil, bloody purpose. They'd trained him to be an assassin. An asset that could do what their other assets couldn't. Get to people and places that supposedly couldn't be reached.

HYDRA was the problem. It always had been. HYDRA had all but wiped out his unit in Italy. HYDRA had captured him and turned him into a pincushion first and a monster later. HYDRA had nearly killed Steve numerous times, and then tried to use him to do the same.

HYDRA had to go.

James glanced over the notes he'd been making over the past two months. The names and faces related to the Winter Soldier—that he _thought_ were related to him. It struck him like ice water. He'd been going about it all wrong. It couldn't be personal. No matter what they'd done to him, his mission was bigger than that. Bigger than him. HYDRA had to be destroyed, and it had to be destroyed before Steve got to them, because they _wanted_ Steve. They'd always wanted Steve. Captain America. Dead...or worse. Destroyed, either way. They'd taken James because Captain America was out of reach. Second best thing.

On some level, they'd taken James because they knew he could get to Steve when they couldn't.

Steve had to be kept out of it. _James_ had to keep Steve out of it.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Present Day_

_Cleveland, Ohio_

The debriefing went mostly as expected. Agents Howard and Doyle confirmed that they'd apprehended almost two dozen lab technicians and scientists on HYDRA's payroll. The dozen or so armed guards were dead, most from the fighting inside the underground bunker, but a few had poisoned themselves when captured. Some things hadn't changed from the old days.

Steve and Sam kept Bucky's name out of the proceedings. The DoJ and General Rayburn were still working out details of the deal President Ellis had struck with Steve, so until that arrangement was in place, it was best to keep the words "Winter Soldier" as far away from the FBI's hunt for HYDRA cells as possible. Officially, the assassination of Karpov was unsolved. Unofficially, the Bureau was more than willing to accept that it was the result of some unknown infighting amongst HYDRA factions. Such infighting was considered good, since it might make the FBI's fight easier in the long run.

In the aftermath, Rhodey volunteered to escort the prisoner transport carrying the HYDRA detainees out to a special holding facility in Utah. They still didn't know the importance of the men and women they'd caught, so having the Iron Patriot cruising alongside the plane made the agents inside much more comfortable. He'd rendezvous with Cap and Falcon as soon as they knew where they were going next.

Tony was running facial recognition programs on every security camera Stark Industries owned—of which there were thousands all around the country. JARVIS was monitoring bank activity, watching for any name that corresponded to any of the aliases listed in Pierce's files, former S.H.I.E.L.D. files, and from the documents discovered by the FBI raids. The trouble was, they didn't know Bucky's patterns. Natasha was right about him being a ghost. He'd been trained to disappear, even in plain sight. For the time being, Steve and Sam could only stay in Cleveland, waiting for responses to their reports to Ellis and hoping Stark came up with a lead, _any_ lead.

So, Steve and Sam were enjoying a leisurely brunch on Uncle Sam's dime. Which meant a Denny's off of Interstate-71. Fortunately, they were running a "bottomless pancake plate" special. Sam had already learned to aim for buffet or "all you can eat" around a guy with a super-soldier appetite. From the looks the waitresses were giving them, he was pretty sure Steve Rogers was still making history, even if it was just local restaurant legend this time.

Despite his ever-ready appetite, Steve had been sullen since the night before. Withdrawn. Getting so close to Bucky and _missing_ him had rattled him. Sam needed to put his friend back on track.

"So..." Sam prompted between pancake reloads and coffee refills.

Steve, ever the gentleman, wiped syrup from his mouth and raised his brow in question. Sam smiled. "You were telling me about Azzano. You bust in like John Wayne, take out a few hundred HYDRA goons, had a knock-down with the Red Skull, and then marched four hundred newly freed men back to base..."

"Hm," Steve nodded. "Not much to tell, really. Bucky and I met up with the others in a clearing by the woods. A lot of them were wounded, so we had to load them up in some trucks and tanks Dugan and the guys had taken over. It was a thirty mile hike. I spent most of the time scouting ahead to make sure we didn't get caught."

Sam arched an eyebrow at the modesty of "not much to tell." History begged to differ. He was more focused on Barnes, though. "I'm surprised Bucky could walk thirty _feet_ after what you said he'd been through, let alone march thirty miles."

"There were a lot of rest breaks," Steve smirked. Sam laughed. _There he is_, he thought. Steve shrugged. "Bucky was always like that. Never could keep him down long, even when we used to get into fights with the neighborhood kids in Brooklyn. By the time we got back to base, he was already hitting on the ladies at the nurses' station."

Steve's smile faded just a bit. "It was a front, though."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_6 November 1943_

_Northern Italy_

_S.S.R. Base Camp, Along the Adige River_

Colonel Phillips had grilled Steve for almost five hours about the HYDRA camp. Steve had drawn a detailed map of the layout, and the safest route to it from where they were, since the colonel seemed eager to move in and examine whatever was left. Mr. Stark's research team was reportedly already prepping to travel to the site.

Most of the four hundred freed prisoners had been trucked to five other field hospitals further behind Allied lines, mainly to ease the load on the S.S.R.'s relatively small medical staff. Most of the 107th, including Bucky, were still there in camp. Phillips and Stark both wanted to talk to Bucky, but the Army surgeon had insisted he rest for a few days at least. From what Steve had overheard from the other room, Bucky was in bad shape, despite having made it all the way here on foot without much help.

Steve was exhausted. He hadn't slept in two days, and had been fighting, marching, or otherwise on his feet for three. Erskine's work was amazing...but Steve was beginning to feel every mile he'd walked in his feet. Once Phillips had finally dismissed him, he went back to his tent, next to the U.S.O. ladies' dressing tent on the outskirts of the camp. As he passed, one of the dancers gave him a look he'd never seen before—and frankly instilled terror in him—so he smiled but walked a little faster until he reached the flap of his tent and ducked inside...then stopped short.

Bucky was inside, sitting stiffly in the wooden armchair beside the bed, rubbing his hands together nervously. He flinched when Steve burst through the tent flap and laboriously pushed himself to his feet to stand at attention. Steve could only blink for a moment.

"Bucky...what are you—? They told me you were asleep in the infirmary. Geez, sit, sit. You look like you're gonna fall over."

"Sorry to— I didn't mean to impo—" Bucky all but collapsed in the chair and awkwardly pointed to his right. "I had to get out of that hospital and my bunk's about seventy miles that way."

Steve scoffed lightly, then moved over to the bed and sat so they were facing. "We've been roommates for a decade. You're never an _imposition_, ya jerk."

Bucky looked terrible. Dark bags beneath his eyes made his face look sunken and gaunt. White bandages stood out starkly around his bruised wrists from where the restraints had held him to the lab table. Bucky's eyes raked up and down Steve, though, like he didn't believe what he was seeing.

"Buck? You okay?"

The other man blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, I— I can't get over how different you are..."

Steve tried to shrug it off, smiling. "It's the same old me."

Barnes huffed. "The same old you wouldn't have broke into a Kraut labor camp and sprung us all."

"Sure I would have," Steve smile turned into a smirk. "I just would have been breathing a lot harder."

That got Bucky to laugh. "Well, you're still the same _punk_. Nice to know. You're gonna have to fill me in on this..."

"I will. But, tomorrow, all right? I'm glad you're okay, Buck."

Bucky swallowed thickly, only nodding. He sat for a moment, eyes drooping, before struggling to sit up again. It was the weakest Steve had ever seen him. Keeping up the facade of the hard-charging sergeant all the way back to the base must have been torture for him.

"I...I should go find a place to rack out—"

Steve stood quickly and gently maneuvered Barnes over to the cot, all but pushing him down onto it. "No. You're staying right here. You're exhausted, Buck."

Barnes shook his head, obstinately. "I'm in Officer's Country, Steve. This is _your_ tent."

"Yeah, and I'm giving you a direct order, _Sergeant_. Go to sleep." Steve retorted. Barnes frowned. Steve knelt in front of him. "You're been through hell, Buck. I formally give you permission to lie down, right here, and I'll fight anybody that tells you you can't."

Bucky laughed again, tired but sincere. "I think that's one of my lines, kiddo." He obeyed, though, dipping back onto Steve's pillow with a bone-weary sigh.

Steve settled into the vacated chair and tugged his muddy boots off. He watched as Bucky's stiff posture gradually relaxed, then stretched his legs out into the middle of the floor. He was close to dozing off when Bucky mumbled.

"Steve?"

"Yeah?" Steve looked over. Bucky's eyes were just slits, and judging by the slur in his words, he was barely conscious.

"Thanks...for comin' after me."

Steve smiled, watching his friend slide into sleep. "Always."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_10 November 1943_

_London, England_

_S.S.R. Command Headquarters_

The S.S.R. unit left Italy two days after Steve rescued the prisoners. A mostly British force remained to comb the remains of Schmidt's factory for intelligence, but the survivors of the decimated 96th and 107th Infantry Divisions, along with the remnants of the British 18th Parachute Battalion, were consolidated and reassigned to the S.S.R. under Phillips.

Most of them returned to England by ship, but the colonel ordered Steve to fly back with him and Peggy aboard Stark's plane. Bucky was included, since the S.S.R.'s experts in London were eager to question him as to what he'd endured in Schmidt's laboratories. Steve wasn't thrilled about Bucky being interrogated again—by their own side, no less—but Bucky asked him not to dispute it. He was just as happy to get out of Italy and not have to endure a week on another cramped transport ship.

"We get to fly in a plane, Steve! How often does that happen?"

They landed in London in the early morning, and by noon they had arrived at base in the city. After that, Peggy corralled Steve together with an Allied intelligence group and had him pouring over maps, communiqués and photographs, elaborating on everything he'd seen in Italy.

Bucky was taken in for a thorough debriefing by Dr. Joseph Reinstein, Erskine's once assistant and now the S.S.R.'s lead medical researcher. Steve had met Reinstein. He seemed brilliant, but his people skills needed work. His questions tended to be blunt, detailed, and totally devoid of sympathy. Steve wasn't keen on leaving Bucky to his "tender mercies," but Phillips gave him little choice in the matter.

His eyes were practically crossed with fatigue after a day spent staring at maps, files and paperwork, so Steve headed to his newly assigned, private quarters—Peggy's doing, he had no doubt. That morning, he'd asked Bucky to meet him there whenever he was done with Reinstein.

When he got to there, Steve found it larger than his tent in Italy—a desk, _two_ cots, _two_ chairs, and a cabinet for clothes—but not by much. It did come with a separate bathroom off to the side. Stepping inside, he found Bucky curled up under a green blanket on the left-hand bed. He stepped over, trying to see if his friend was awake or not. He kept his voice low, just in case. "You okay, Buck?"

"Cold," Bucky replied quietly.

Steve chuckled. "Yeah, England in November. I thought New York was bad. How'd it go with the docs?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Steve," Bucky whispered, voice cracking.

_Damn_, Steve cursed silently. That was what he'd been afraid of, letting Bucky be debriefed alone. Reinstein's questions could be probing, at best, and asking someone as proud as Bucky to talk about being tortured... Steve frowned, but kept quiet. Bucky had undoubtedly been interrogated enough for one day. He noticed that Bucky was shivering, even under the blanket, so he grabbed another one off the other cot and draped it over him. It didn't seem to help much, so after a few minutes, Steve discarded his uniform jacket and lowered himself onto the cot beside Bucky, draping an arm over Bucky's shoulders to help keep the heat inside the blankets.

"Remember the winter back in '35? That January?"

From his vantage point over Bucky's shoulder, Steve saw the smile form. "That damned radiator was always on the fritz..."

"Except now our positions are reversed," Steve chuckled.

Bucky's laugh was a little high-pitched, not like his usual laugh. Steve noticed, though, that his shoulders didn't stop hitching after the laughter faded. When he looked down, Bucky had buried his face in his hands. The next sound Steve heard was a barely concealed sob.

"They wouldn't stop, Steve," Bucky said softly, voice ragged. For a moment, Steve thought he meant the doctors at his debriefing, until Bucky continued. "For _weeks_. Didn't matter how much I s-screamed or begged...I _begged_ _them_, Steve, but they wouldn't—"

Steve tightened his arm around his friend, resting his chin on Bucky's shoulder. He didn't know what to say for a while, afraid of making Bucky's ordeal worse. Finally, he remembered what Bucky had said to him the night after his mother's funeral.

"I know it doesn't feel like it right now," he whispered into Barnes' shoulder. "But it'll get better, Buck. I promise. It'll get better."

Bucky didn't speak again. His shoulders stopped shaking a while later. Steve didn't sleep, he just kept watch. It was hard seeing his best friend like that. Bucky had always been the stronger of the two of them. Maybe he still was, even if not physically. Bucky Barnes reduced to tears was something Steve never wanted to see again. It made him want to go back and strangle every last one of the HYDRA fiends responsible. He'd always hated bullies...but now the bullies had never been so big or so close to home.

They stayed that way on the cot until reveille sounded. Steve rolled gently to his feet, trying not to wake Bucky if he could manage it. He'd let him sleep all day if he wanted. Bucky, though, was too well trained. He slowly got to his feet after Steve, though he didn't meet his friend's eyes. He grabbed a folded towel off the other bed and headed for the door. Steve said nothing about their brief conversation the night before. If he knew Bucky, they wouldn't speak of it again.

Bucky stopped before reaching the door. He turned halfway, avoiding Steve's gaze. He was still staring at the floor, biting his lip, when he spoke quietly. "I...thought I was going to die. I probably would have, if it hadn't been for you."

Steve didn't know what to say. He knew he didn't need to say anything. They'd never kept score. Instead, he cleared his throat and nodded. "Colonel Phillips was talking about putting a special squad together, to go after HYDRA. When you're up to it, I'd like your opinion on who could be in it, Sergeant."

Bucky blinked for a moment, before a genuine smile creased his face. He stood a little taller, taking the lifeline Steve offered him. "Yes, sir. I'd be happy to help..._Captain_."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Present Day_

_Denny's, off of I-71_

Sam was speechless for a few minutes. He hadn't expected Steve to lay Bucky's story bare like that. "Steve...have you ever told anyone that story before?"

Steve shook his head, staring into his coffee. "Wasn't anybody's business. And...after Bucky di— After I _thought_ Bucky died, it seemed wrong to share it with anyone else."

It was an enormous gesture, sharing a secret like that with Sam. He was floored, honestly, to be offered such trust by someone he'd—in all honesty—idolized growing up. "Thank you." The words seemed inadequate.

Looking up at last, Steve fixed Sam with those piercing blue eyes of his. "I told you because I need you to understand, Sam. The war made Bucky a killer—it made us both killers. But, what he is now..._HYDRA_ made him that."

Sam suddenly realized that they were talking about the night before, when they'd discovered Karpov executed.

"He's a victim," Steve continued quietly, deadly serious. "I will _never_ blame him for it."

"I get it," Sam replied, equally serious. "I _do_, Steve."

"If he was here last night, it means he's going after HYDRA, too," Steve added, not appearing happy about the possibility. "If they get their hands on him again..."

Steve trailed off, looking more miserable than when he'd started talking. Sam hated seeing it.

"We'll find him before that happens, Steve. I promise."

Sam meant every word. He just prayed he'd be able to keep that promise.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_13 November 1943_

_London, England_

"Is this everybody?" Steve asked, reading the list on the clipboard.

Bucky nodded, scratching at his upper left arm. The medics had seen some puncture wounds there—likely injection marks, they'd said—the day they'd examined him in Italy. The marks had healed already, but Steve had noticed Bucky scratching at the area ever since. "Yeah, that's them. To be honest, I don't know much about Morita, but Dum-Dum says he's a good man. Helped them fight their way out of the camp."

Steve gave him a half-smile. "'Dum-Dum?'"

"Corporal Dugan," Bucky explained, tapping the first name on the list. "They saved my life in there, Steve. They're good men."

"What happened?" Steve asked quietly. They were in one of the bullpens in Phillips' underground headquarters. Officers and aides were milling about all around them, not giving them a second glance, but Steve didn't want anyone to overhear.

Bucky glanced around at the other people, and kept his voice low, as well. "I got sick. Those cells weren't heated. One of the overseers beat the hell out of me when I couldn't work. He told all the guards that if I couldn't work the next day, to let him know and he'd drag me out and shoot me in front of the others. Make an example. Dum-Dum, Falsworth and the guys, when they found out they rigged a...rigged an "accident" on one of the assembly lines that afternoon. Killed the bastard before he could kill me."

Steve was horrified. Not that the prisoners would do such a thing, but at how close Bucky had come to dying in that hellhole. "God, Buck..."

"Don't start, you worry wart," Bucky warned, punching Steve in the kneecap. "I'm right here. Takes more than pneumonia to take me out."

"Pneumonia?" Steve cried, a little too loud, as a few of the analysts glanced up at him. Frowning, he hushed his voice. "That's serious Bucky! Did you tell the medics?"

It occurred to him even as he was asking the question that Bucky had shown no signs of pneumonia when Steve had rescued him. That was...odd. His own experience with it a few years before—

"I was hacking my lungs up when they brought me to the isolation ward," Barnes said, rubbing his arm again. "Then the injections started and...I don't know, I woke up one day and I felt better. I didn't exactly have time to ask why while they were working me over."

That last comment was laced with bitterness. At Steve's concerned look, Barnes growled and shot him a dirty look. "Do you want to talk about _me_? Or do you want to talk about this super-squad of yours? 'Cause _I _don't want to talk about _me_."

Steve held up his hands in surrender. Bucky suddenly looked ashamed at his outburst. He dropped his eyes to the floor and gestured to the clipboard. "You wanted my opinion, Stevie. These are your guys. They're just dumb enough to say yes to this crazy idea."

"Okay," Steve replied. He bit back asking Bucky if he was all right—again—for fear of a busted lip. Instead he got up and took the list to one of the staff secretaries and asked her to send a request to the men listed to meet them there in an hour.

Bucky overheard—surprisingly since he hadn't moved from the desk—jumped up and walked over to Steve's side. "No! Not here." He leveled a look at Steve that clearly said he thought Steve was out of his mind. "You wanna ask five guys who just got out of hell to walk back in again? You buy them drinks."

He looked at the secretary, who frowning at them both. "Where's the nearest pub?"

TBC

A/N: _For those who might care, the 96th and 107th Divisions are fictitious, as is the British 18th Paratrooper Battalion, so far as I can determine. Bucky was obviously in the 107th in the film. Given Falsworth's red beret, I'm assuming he was a British Paratrooper. _

_In the 40s, flying in an airplane was still a novelty, hence Bucky's excitement. _

_"Dr. Joseph Reinstein" was an alias of Dr. Erskine in the comics. Seemed appropriate to use that for his replacement. _

_Thanks to ink-phoenix on tumblr, whose blog pointed me to the "Captain America: The First Vengeance" comic, which detailed Bucky's stay in the labor camp, and pointed out that it must have been Bucky who gave the Commandos' names to Cap._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chasing Ghosts, Part I**

**Chapter 5**

_Present Day_

_Camp Atwater_

_Decommissioned U.S. Army Induction Center, Northwest Missouri_

The former Camp Atwater had been built in 1916, during the military buildup before the United States' entry into World War One. It served as a recruitment hub for the central Midwest, then as a training camp between the wars, and again as a recruiting hub in the Second World War. According to historical records that Barnes had uncovered, it was decommissioned in 1946 and transferred to Strategic Scientific Reserve, the precursor of S.H.I.E.L.D., as a processing center for German scientists given amnesty in America under Operation: Paperclip.

_Interesting_.

Barnes pressed the button on the remote, and three of the slab-sided concrete buildings in the center of the facility exploded into massive fireballs.

What the public records did not show was that S.H.I.E.L.D. had kept the facility open for many years after its final, _official_ closing in 1965 as a temporary holding area for dangerous persons of interest, and that, still later, HYDRA had secretly converted it into a logistical hub for its operations in Central America.

The fires were intense and would burn for several hours, ensuring none of the equipment, files, or HYDRA operatives inside would survive. After watching for a few minutes, Barnes turned to face the passenger in his commandeered cargo truck. The pale, balding man with square bifocals stared back, quivering in terror as Barnes glared at him.

"Patrick Daniel McAllister. Joined S.H.I.E.L.D.'s logistics division two years ago. Recruited by HYDRA eight months later. Assigned here as a planner. You're responsible for scheduling supply runs to every HYDRA base in North America."

Barnes slapped a children's map of the U.S.A. he'd acquired at a family restaurant where he'd eaten two days prior down onto the bench seat between them, and held out a short pencil he'd taken from the public library two towns over. "You have one minute to circle the locations you know about on this map."

McAllister was shaking so hard he could barely breathe. "Y-you have the wrong— Wrong man! I swear! I'm a l-loyal S.H.I.E.L.D. agent!"

Glancing at the digital clock on the dashboard, Barnes scooted a few inches across the seat. "I don't work for S.H.I.E.L.D.. I'm going to kill you in fifty-five seconds, whether you tell me what I want to know or not. The only difference is, if you do help me, it'll be painless. If you don't..."

The hapless supply officer swallowed audibly, and after another few seconds' thought, leaned over and started circling places on the map. After the first two, he hesitated, pencil shaking in his hand. Barnes frowned. "_Twenty-nine_."

McAllister scrambled to circle five more places, and even quickly jotted down four more in Mexico and Canada, with arrows pointing off the borders of the cartoony map. When he was finished, Barnes snatched the paper placemat back and folded it into a pocket in his body armor. He leveled a cold look at his prisoner. "Thank you, for your cooperation."

He reached over, smothering the man's scream with his flesh and blood hand.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Present Day_

_FBI Field Office, Omaha, Nebraska_

_Three Months after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D._

Steve dropped into an uncomfortable armchair next to Rhodey with a sigh.

"No luck, huh?" The colonel asked, passing Cap a paper cup of water.

"Nothing," Steve said, tilting his head back and staring at the fluorescent lights overhead. They'd intercepted a busload of HYDRA techs and field analysts trying to flee the country into Canada two days earlier. The higher-ups had all poisoned themselves once they ran out of ammunition, but almost two dozen of the lower level personnel had been taken into custody. Agent Howard's interrogators weren't getting much out of them, however. Apparently, HYDRA had assimilated S.H.I.E.L.D.'s obsessive compartmentalization techniques. Most of the operatives they'd caught didn't know key details of projects they'd been assigned to, or know where such projects were based outside of the small pieces for which they were actually responsible. "We're wasting our time with this batch."

Rhodes grunted. "Well, we stopped them from getting out of the country, at least. Maybe we'll get _something_ useful out of them. Eventually."

Steve shrugged, too tired to care. They'd been hunting for signs of HYDRA—and Bucky—for three months. They'd made a good start on HYDRA, but aside from the near miss in Cleveland, he was no closer to catching up to Bucky than when he'd started. He'd gotten an email from Rayburn's office in the Pentagon that morning telling him that all the preparations for getting Bucky help and official status with the Army were finished. Bucky had a home to return to, if Steve could just find him.

Rhodes' cell phone buzzed on the coffee table by their legs. Rhodes glanced at the screen before answering it. "Hey, Tony. Yeah, he's right here. He had to turn his phone off during the interrogation— When? Hold on, I'm putting you on speaker."

Steve sat up at the shift in Rhodey's voice. "Tony?"

"_Got something for you, Cap, it just came across the FBI wire. Someone blew an old Army base in Missouri sky high last night. Retired office building and two barracks. Looks like they were fronts for S.H.I.E.L.D. black ops_."

"Was anybody inside them?" Rhodey asked, shooting Steve a dark glance. S.H.I.E.L.D. black ops almost certainly meant HYDRA black ops.

"_About eight_." Tony answered. "_No IDs yet, but one other was found in a ditch about half a mile away._"

"Dead?" Steve asked.

"_No, actually. Tied up with duct tape, and acting like he'd seen a ghost. Kept babbling about a map_."

Sam walked into the room with Agent Doyle. Steve flagged him down. "Go get Agent Howard. We're moving out." He turned back to Tony's face on the phone's small screen. "Any clues on the culprit?"

He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice, but probably missed by a mile.

"_No evidence at all, which I thought you'd find interesting. Though, the local LEOs made a big deal about some finger shaped bruises on the survivor's arm, so I'm thinking that's either from metal fingers...or they at least got to first base_." Tony smirked.

Steve shared a patient glance with Rhodes, who only shrugged. "Thanks, Tony, we'll check in soon."

"_Oh, Cap? Tell Wilson to plug his wings into the tablet sometime tomorrow. I have a software upgrade for him_."

Steve grinned, shaking his head. Stark was always tinkering. "_Thanks_, Tony."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

James couldn't breathe. The cryo-stasis chamber was so cold his teeth were chattering. He beat on the inside of the hatch, frantically trying to get out.

_Please!_

His own face stared back at him through the small triangular window.

_How many have you killed?_

The cold was closing in, colder than before. His lungs would freeze any second. James slammed his fists into the metal shell harder. _It wasn't me! It was you!_

The Soldier's voice spoke right next to his ear. _I am you_.

James gasped and jerked himself upright on the bed, eyes darting around the room. It was so cold that goosebumps were forming on the bare skin of his arm. His gaze swept over the area, landing on the air conditioning unit. He frowned and slowly staggered off the bed to turn it off. He didn't remember air conditioning being so effective in his past, but then, many things had changed while he'd been the Soldier.

He pulled on the hoodie he'd tossed over the end of the bed, and sank back down onto the mattress with a groan. He just wanted to sleep. He'd give almost anything to be able to sleep more than an hour at a time. But, it had been two weeks and the nightmares hadn't stopped.

They came in waves. First, formless shapes, sometimes chasing him, sometimes smothering him. Then, if he persisted in trying to sleep, the faces. He didn't know them. Some appeared like photographs, some he saw in full, real-live color. They were the faces of people the Winter Soldier had killed—that _he_ had killed—he was sure of that much. Sometimes he saw the men who'd made him. Round glasses, smirking faces, sharp knives, needles, blood. Arnim Zola. He'd found the name in history books. It had taken several tries to find a reference to him in a World War Two manuscript—ironically a biography of one of Captain America's Howling Commandos. Zola was the HYDRA scientist that Captain America had captured from a moving train in the Alps.

But, Barnes knew Zola as more than that. The memories had started coming back to him as soon as he saw the photograph. Quick glimpses at first, but the more vivid memories had come to him in his nightmares. He remembered a lab, men in white coats, electronic equipment. The latter seemed to vary from memory to memory. He wondered how many years they'd worked on him to make him what he was. Or perhaps he was remembering different periods, in between being frozen in the chamber.

He didn't like thinking about the cryo-chamber.

James wanted to remember. He didn't like the faces of the dead that appeared in his sleep, but he'd found that if he focused on an objective, it was easier to function. His handlers had taught him how. Emotions were sloppy, distracting. Emotions got in the way. Order. Order was the path. The mission.

He hated his handlers. Hated HYDRA. Hated what they'd done to him. But, during that first, awful week after the Smithsonian...he'd had to admit that their brutal methods were effective. He was a soldier. He was _the_ Soldier. A soldier didn't feel pain, or regret. Didn't scream himself hoarse over things he couldn't change. Didn't sit up nights with a gun pointed at his head, praying for things he'd never receive. No, a soldier was above such things. A soldier would take what his handlers had given him and use it against them. Point that gun at HYDRA.

James was a Soldier.

But, despite the emotional turmoil his memories sometimes provoked, he wanted to know more. Needed to. Books had helped trigger some, mostly of his early life. Bits and pieces. Surprisingly, most of it was connected to Rogers in some way. Steve Rogers was firmly imprinted on an impressive chunk of his youth. Sometimes studying Rogers helped uncover things he needed to know about himself. He'd gone back and walked through the museum exhibit every day until he'd memorized every panel and picture. He'd found a dozen books about Rogers. Some were more helpful than others. He'd read and reread one that seemed to work better. It was a more recent publication, with a more nuanced approach to the raw historical data, not as laced with patriotic nostalgia as the earlier works. It had even briefly covered Rogers' return and the Battle of New York.

He wasn't quite sure why the concept of alien life unsettled him so much. It wasn't all that important, though.

James gave up trying to sleep, again, and turned over onto his belly, feet propped on the headboard. He picked up a pencil and one of his notepads and started to write. He usually didn't write words, just let the pencil glide over the paper. After a while—sometimes—some of the ice in his brain would melt, and he'd remember something new. He just needed to let the pencil roam.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_October 1943_

_Salzburgerland, Austria_

When Bucky's head stopped throbbing enough for him to think coherent thoughts, he rolled slowly onto his stomach on the concrete floor of his cell. It was easier to breathe, that way. His muscles ached, not just from the beating he'd taken that morning, but from whatever they'd injected him with that afternoon. His veins had been burning at first, then the pain spread deeper. He bit his lip to keep a groan from escaping, lest his guards hear and come for him again.

Slowly, silently, he reached for the small crack in the stone wall, edging his fingers inside carefully until he found it. The little, light brown piece of wrapping paper had just been lying on the lab floor. Just a scrap of garbage no one even knew was there. Bucky pulled the paper out, then reached back in and found the small pencil he'd swiped off one of the desks in the last examination room. The Germans who staffed the prison obviously didn't know how two poor boys got by in Depression-era Brooklyn. _Gotta lock your stuff up better than that, Fritzy_.

He chuckled softly to himself. It wasn't much of a victory over his abusive captors, but he'd take what he could get. The preceding two weeks had been hellish. Ever since his pneumonia symptoms had mysteriously disappeared, the guards had been dragging him to a different laboratory every day, as soon as he woke up. Sometimes they'd be beating on him before that, and he'd wake to flurries of fists and boots. Each day brought a new nightmare. Needles, electric shocks, potions poured down his throat, pressure chambers, question after question about the most irrational things.

_Read the smallest line on that chart._

_ Can you hear this sound?_

_ How much pain does this cause? Be specific, please. And now _this_?_

_ Try to break the bonds holding your wrists. Try harder._

_ What are you feeling now?_

_ Do you feel stronger or weaker today?_

On and on. None of it made sense. Everything he said or did was dutifully written down. When he refused to answer, the guards made him. In between sessions, they'd knock him around. It didn't even seem related to anything he'd done or not done, just as though they were merely passing the time.

The thing that made him feel ill was that, despite the insanity of it all, the tests and experiments—he _knew_ that they were experiments, he just didn't know for _what_—seemed to be reaching a crescendo. Like there was a final destination for all the pain and suffering he'd endured. Bucky knew that destination was close.

He pressed the pencil to the paper.

_Dear Steve_

Bucky hesitated, tears forming in his eyes. He shook it off with a bitter snort.

_I don't know why I'm writing this, since I don't think you'll ever see it. But I have to try. My unit was captured in Northern Italy by some special Kraut division. They have guns and tanks like none of us have ever heard of, like stuff H.G. Wells would write about, or that nutball Stark we saw at the Expo would try to invent. _

_That night seems like years ago, but I know it couldn't be. I don't know what they want __with us__ with me, but I think they're getting close. I don't know if I'll ever see you again Steve. Maybe if Sister Francis was right I will someday. I'm glad it's not now though because I wouldn't want you to see me like this. _

He paused again. He didn't know how to say it.

_I guess what I'm trying to say is goodby—_

The cell door opened. Bucky quickly tossed the pencil into a corner and slipped the paper into the waistband of his pants. He kept his face as still as possible, hoping the guards wouldn't notice. It had to be hard to see out of those goggles they always wore, so he might get lucky.

Two guards entered, a third stayed outside, like always. They hauled him to his feet and dragged him out of the cell. At first, he'd forced them to drag him just to make it difficult on them. Later, it was because he actually couldn't walk in a straight line and they were unwilling to wait for him to get his feet under him. Bucky had memorized the route down the hallways. A right turn out of the cell, then another right, then a left—

They didn't turn left today. The guards took him to the right instead, away from the cluster of labs, into a dimly lit area with walls made of red brick. Bucky was only vaguely aware of his new surroundings. He was too busy trying to control the pain in his limbs. His body ached more than usual, and the guards' tight grips were aggravating it.

The temperature was suddenly much warmer, and Bucky raised his head to see that they were in a large room lined with thick brick columns. Smokestacks. They must be near the boiler room, or whatever powered the factory. These Germans had incredibly better technology than anything he'd seen anywhere.

The lead guard turned and stared at him for a long moment, then lifted the hem of the ragged sweater Bucky wore and plucked the folded piece of paper from his waistband. He moved slowly, making sure Bucky was watching as he stepped over to what seemed to be an incinerator. The guard tossed the letter in, then jerked his head toward the door. Bucky's heart sank as a small puff of smoke escaped the hatch cover, marking the destruction of the letter. He was fairly certain he wouldn't get another chance, however slim it had been, to get a message out to Steve.

The guards continued out the door and down another brick-walled hallway. Garish green light from the other end made it look like something out of some twisted version of the Emerald City. Bucky remembered watching _The Wizard of Oz_ in the theater with Steve, on one of their infrequent double dates. He couldn't remember the girls' names anymore. Not surprising, really, since the snobby twins turned their noses up every time Steve spoke. That had been enough for Bucky to give up on the date part.

He and Steve had ignored them after a while and just watched the movie.

They turned left into a large, chilly room. Desks and filing cabinets lined the walls. There were a few chairs, a couple of large windows overlooking the factory courtyard. Floodlights outside cast long shadows over the floor.

By far the worst sight was the table. It stood near the center of the room, flanked with equipment, tables, a large hospital-style operating room light, and an object that looked to Bucky like the telescope one of his parents' neighbors had let him play with one summer. Only this was gigantic, almost as large as the table, hooked to a boxy machine. Wires and hoses dangled off of it, connecting who knew what gizmos together. The smaller end was pointed at the table, round with several pointy emitters in the center. Just looking at it made Bucky's skin crawl. What on Earth were they going to do to him, now?

"Ah! Sergeant Barnes, I presume?"

The voice came from a desk on the right side of the room. A short, pudgy man with round glasses and a high forehead was holding a clipboard and looking at him.

"On the examination table, please."

Bucky was none too gently forced up onto the table on his back, and four heavy straps were pulled across his body, at his chest, waist, knees and ankles. He wasn't getting off the table any time soon. The guards stepped away out of sight, and the short man appeared at Bucky's left, still perusing papers on the clipboard.

Bucky shifted his eyes to the ceiling and kept them there. He wouldn't show this new man the fear that was building inside. "Barnes, James. Sergeant. 3-2-5-5-7—"

"Yes, yes," the man said, frowning down at him. "I know all this."

The man went back to reading. A few minutes went by before he spoke again. "You have proven quite resilient during the previous testing. I am honored to inform you, Mr. Barnes, that you have been selected for a very special program. You will become the new face of HYDRA."

He looked pleased. Bucky looked at him like he was insane. He'd never help the enemy. Offended at the suggestion, Bucky growled out his name and rank once more. "Barnes, James. _Sergeant_. 3-2-5-5-7—"

"We are wasting time!" The small man said, seeming irritated. Bucky was mildly pleased that he'd managed to get under the little man's skin.

After a moment, the man regained his composure and smiled again. "Let us begin, yes?"

Bucky repeated his name, rank and serial number, and obstinately kept it up, even and the machines were turned on and he spent hours on end screaming.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

James woke to a _pop_. He glanced around in confusion for a moment. He was lying face down on the bed, on top of his notes. When he looked to his right, he found the source of the sound. He'd snapped the pencil in two in his fist.

He blinked. He hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep again. The memory of Zola's lab stayed with him, however. Zola's procedures had continued for more than a week before Rogers had found and rescued him. Most days were the same sequence. Dozens of injections in his arms, legs, and chest, followed by the big machine that blasted him with some kind of bright light. It made his whole body burn. Sometimes the blasts of energy went on for hours.

Zola had been unmoved by his screams and pleas for it to stop, he recalled that very clearly. He'd only been told it was for a higher purpose. _Scientific advancement can often be a painful process, Sergeant_.

He flexed his metal fingers, the servos whirring softly, beneath him on the bed. _Some higher purpose_...

James discarded the broken pencil and started to push himself up off the bed when he saw the pad. One word was on the paper, the last letter distorted when the pencil cracked.

S-T-E-V-E.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Present Day_

_Nodaway Country Sheriff's Department_

_Maryville, Missouri_

"All right, let's go through this again. A man grabbed you by the gate of the Army base, and forced you into a truck..." Agent Howard sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Then what happened?"

From behind the two-way glass, Steve watched the man, McAllister, fidget with the pen and paper he'd been provided to make his statement. The local sheriff's deputies had found him tied up in a ditch, the only survivor of the burned out base. Thus far, however, all he'd done was provide a dozen different reasons why he was innocent and how his job at the secret S.H.I.E.L.D. base was nothing but "number crunching."

"He wanted me to point out other S.H.I.E.L.D. bases on a map. He was crazy! He told me he'd kill me if I didn't do what he said."

"He wanted to know about other S.H.I.E.L.D. bases?" Agent Howard asked, making a note on his legal pad.

"That's right."

"Are you sure about that?" Howard asked, looking over his reading glasses at McAllister. "Are you sure he wasn't asking about _HYDRA_ bases?"

McAllister blinked. "Um...HYDRA? What—what's HYDRA?"

Steve smirked. That alone proved the man was a liar. A bad one. Chapter One of the SHIELD handbook was titled _The Red Skull, Founder of HYDRA_. When he'd joined up after New York, Steve had sent in several suggested edits to Human Resources for the next edition.

Howard pressed forward. "While were on this topic, would you like to explain to me how a S.H.I.E.L.D. logistics officer was working on a S.H.I.E.L.D. base that was closed down in 1965?"

"Uh...well, clearly, it _wasn't_. The agency kept many locations off the books," McAllister said, nervously removing his glasses and wiping the lenses.

"Mm-hmm," Howard nodded. "And of those 'off book locations,' how many were actually HYDRA bases, Mr. McAllister?"

"H-how would I know? I'm—I mean, I'm just a _supply_ _clerk_..."

"Man, can this guy get any more transparent?" Rhodey asked from Steve's left.

Sam, on his right, shook his head. "He might as well have 'HYDRA Lackey' tattooed on his forehead."

Steve frowned. He touched the button that let him speak into Howard's earpiece. "Mike, focus on the man in the truck."

Howard switched gears without any hesitation. "All right, let's put a pin in that for now, okay Patrick? Talk to me about this assailant of yours. Strange man you don't know grabs you and throws you in his truck. Who was he? You hear any names? What did he look like? Paint me a picture."

"Oh, okay...well, he was white. And he had, uh, dark hair...and he was wearing all black. His eyes were..." McAllister shuddered a bit. "He looked insane! And he was _fast_. God, I've never seen anyone move like that. He went over the base fence like it wasn't even there. I saw like a...like he had a metal glove, or _something_ on his left hand. Um...oh! I kept hearing this...I don't know, a whirring noise? When his arms moved. Sounded like a machine moving."

Steve sighed. He touched the button again. "Thanks, Mike." He released the control and cursed under his breath, stepping away from the window.

"It does sound like Barnes," Sam admitted quietly, keeping back while Steve paced.

"That's a good thing, though. Right?" Rhodey added. "He's going after HYDRA just like we are."

"It's not if he gets caught again. We've got backup, he doesn't." Steve retorted.

"Well, this is what they trained him to do," Sam said.

"Even the Winter Soldier had backup. Even if they were only well-paid mercs," Steve countered. He slammed his fist into the wall by the door, palm flat so he didn't dent the drywall. "Damn it! Why doesn't he just _come to us_."

He saw Sam glance at Rhodes, but neither of them spoke. The door opened, revealing Agent Howard in the hallway.

"Hey, Cap, can we talk? In private."

Steve glanced at the others, but followed the agent out the door and down the hallway. "You get anything out of McAllister?"

"We will," Howard answered, keeping his eyes forward. "He's in over his head and he knows it. Won't take long to crack."

They stopped and entered an empty office near the back of the building. Howard gestured for Steve to sit in front of the bare desk, and took a seat against the wall. He folded his arms with a pensive look on his face. "You know, I was reading something a while back that said that Cable news is losing its audience. People are getting news off the Internet these days. But, do you know when Cable news ratings spike? When big, _bad_ things happen. 9/11, Katrina, Battle of New York...when someone starts a war in the District of Columbia."

Steve frowned. "I'm...not sure I see where you're going with this, Mike."

Howard pursed his lips. "I'm just wondering when you're going to read me in about the guy with the metal arm."

Steve's face fell. "Mike, look, it's classified—"

"Guy shoots up the Anacostia Freeway and has a running gunfight with you, Romanoff, and Wilson out there, now he's blowing up old Army bases that are almost _certainly_ secret HYDRA facilities, _and_ I'm willing to bet our mystery assassin in Cleveland is the same man. Tell me I'm wrong, Steve."

"You're not," Steve conceded, frowning as he weighed how much he should say next. He had kept the FBI in the dark, but if Bucky was nearby, they needed to know, for their own safety as well as his. "He's a—he _was_ a prisoner. Alexander Pierce used him as an assassin against his will. I'm trying to find him and bring him in."

Howard nodded, all business. He was surprisingly unfazed. "Threat level?"

"High," Steve allowed. "But, not against us. I think right now he's just after the people that used him."

"So, if we run into him out here, what's the plan? Do my people apprehend him?"

"_No_," Steve said. "Me, Sam, or Rhodey. I don't think he'd hurt any of your people, but if he thinks he's backed into corner..."

Agent Howard frowned. "Is he unstable, or—" He broke off and looked at Steve. "You don't know."

Steve could only shake his head.

"Ah, shit, Steve." Howard laid his head back against the wall. "We have a loose cannon on the board."

"Mike, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about this. It's classified...from the top. We can't let HYDRA know that their 'asset,'" Steve got a bad taste in his mouth at the word. "Is still out there. And, _frankly_, after D.C. I didn't want anyone taking a shot at him when we did find him."

Howard sighed, rubbing his forehead. "All right. I get it. Look, I'll have to tell my agents something, even if it's just a description so that if we _do_ run into him we can pull back and call you in."

Steve nodded gratefully. "That's fair. Mike, I would have told you if I could—"

"This isn't my first joint op with the military, Cap," Howard smiled. "I think you guys come with rolls of red tape as standard issue equipment."

Before he could respond, Steve's Starkphone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw a text from Roy McCrerey. _Need you at the White House, ASAP_.

Odd. He'd been communicating with the White House electronically, for the most part, since leaving the East Coast.

He looked up at Howard. "I have to get to Washington. What's your next move here, Mike?"

Howard took the change of subject in stride and nodded toward the door. "We're still waiting on forensics to finish checking the site. And I need to take another swipe at our clerk out there. We won't be leaving for a couple of days, I think."

"All right," Steve stood. "Sam and Rhodey will be here to help. I'll get back as soon as I can."

He stepped out into the hall and dialed McCrerey.

The aide seemed mildly excited when he answered. "Hello, Captain."

"Mr. McCrerey. What's going on?"

"The President had a visit this afternoon. I can't go into it, even on a secure line. But he wants to see you as soon as you can get here."

That seemed ominous. Steve checked his watch. "Okay, I can grab a flight out—"

"Don't worry about that. There's a C-40 waiting at Kansas City International. It'll fly you here and back. Just get to the airport and we'll take it from there."

Steve acknowledged that and hung up, then went to find Sam and Rhodey. They were waiting outside the observation booth of the interrogation room. Steve motioned with his phone. "I've got to go to D.C.. Something's up. You guys should stay here, help the agents investigate this base fire. I had to tell Mike about Bucky. Just the bullet points. I, uh...I'd prefer..."

"No details. We hear ya, Steve." Sam said. Rhodes agreed.

"Thanks," Steve said, gratefully. "I'll call you when I know what's going on."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Present Day_

_Super 8 Motel_

_Maryville, Missouri_

Sam fumbled with his motel key a little, trying to balance his takeout bag in one hand and drink in the other. He and Rhodes were taking turns staying on site with the FBI team, and it was Sam's time to grab a late dinner and sleep for a few hours.

_Steve's probably in D.C. by now, poor guy_. Rogers hadn't been sleeping well. The search for Bucky was taking a toll on him that even fighting his way through HYDRA rat holes couldn't. Maybe flying out on one of the Air Force's notoriously boring transports would be enough to knock him out for a few hours.

The lock finally clicked, and Sam kicked open the door. He dropped his key and the food on the table and was two steps inside when something gripped the back of his neck and slammed him face-first into the wall behind the door. He scrambled for the gun he was carrying under his jacket, but before he could reach it his arm was twisted painfully behind his back. Sam yelped, but his attacker didn't seem to care whether or not he pulled Sam's shoulder out of its socket.

The feeling of the muzzle of a handgun being pressed against his skull was unmistakable.

"Where is he?"

TBC

A/N: I'm pretty sure that Zola said "new FIST of Hydra" in the film, which made sense in the context of Bucky's new metal arm. I chose "face" here, for a reason. In CA: The First Avenger, there is clearly an issue with Schmidt's physical appearance. He wears a mask to cover it, and takes great offense at the name "Red Skull." For the purposes of this story, I think Zola's super-soldier program would not only give Hydra a powerful army, but also provide the world a more _acceptable_ face in the form of Bucky, rather than Schmidt. Bucky's conversion to their cause would be a massive PR victory for Hydra. That's my story and I'm sticking to it!


	6. Chapter 6

**Chasing Ghosts, Part I**

**Chapter 6**

_Present Day_

_Washington, D.C._

_The Oval Office_

It was after 11 o'clock when the C-40 touched down at Andrews Air Force Base. Two Secret Service agents in dark suits escorted Steve to a black Suburban and he was in the Oval Office just before midnight. President Ellis was there, as well as the Secretary of State and an Army general. Ellis made the introductions, though Steve recognized both of them.

"Steve Rogers, I'd like you to meet Secretary of State Owens and this is General Serrano, from Army Intelligence."

Steve shook hands with Owens, who smiled politely. Serrano merely nodded stiffly, looking less than pleased. Steve understood why. Serrano had taken a hard line against Natasha during her Congressional testimony and was none too pleased that Steve had chosen not to appear before the committee—that Steve had been laid up in the hospital for much of that time didn't seem to have mattered. Natasha had relayed as much to Steve afterward. _He's not a fan, Steve, you might want to watch your back_.

The President noticed, Steve could tell, but if he was aware of the reason behind the tension, he didn't say. "Captain, I'm sorry to have called you away on such short notice."

"Not at all, Mr. President."

"Have we determined what was destroyed at the base in Missouri, yet?" Ellis asked, glancing over a report folder which Steve assumed had his and Agent Howard's preliminary assessments, forwarded that afternoon.

"There wasn't much left in those buildings," Steve said. "But from what we've been able to find the base was used to process captured German scientists after World War Two. We don't know much else, but that alone—to me—ties it to Arnim Zola. We just have to figure out how."

"That would be the _sentient computer program_ you and Romanoff discovered in New Jersey, Captain? _That_ Arnim Zola?" Serrano asked, his tone practically dripping with contempt.

Based on his treatment of Natasha, Steve already wanted to tell the general what he could do with his opinions. But, the White House wasn't the place for that. Instead, he kept his eyes steadily on Ellis and kept his voice level. "That would be the same Zola, yes sir. Though, I think he would have been flesh and blood at the time. We know he was involved with bringing elements of HYDRA here under the auspices of S.H.I.E.L.D., so it makes sense he'd use the system they had in place to do so."

There was a faintly amused look in Ellis' eyes. Steve took that as a sign that the President was on his side, at least. Serrano, however, wasn't easily shaken off.

"Any ideas on who blew it up, Captain? And why now?"

Steve finally turned to meet the general's hostile gaze. "We don't know yet, sir. It's possible HYDRA destroyed it themselves. We intercepted a busload of HYDRA agents trying to flee to Canada a few days ago. It's very possible this base was burned to keep us from finding whatever was there."

Serrano opened his mouth again, but Ellis spoke before the conversation could escalate. "Cap, the reason I asked you here is because of a visit we received this afternoon. Are you familiar with Andrei Lysenko?"

"No, sir. Should I be?"

"Lysenko is the Russian ambassador to the U.S.," Secretary Owens spoke up. "It turns out that buried in those files Agent Romanoff uploaded were a few references that verified the existence of a KGB assassin called 'The Winter Soldier,' as well as some suggestions that this 'soldier' might have been a captured _American_."

Steve looked sharply at Ellis, whose stony expression conveyed a message loud and clear. _Keep your mouth shut_. Steve schooled his own expression and continued listening to Owens.

"Lysenko was here to..._inquire_ about these claims."

"Which is the polite way of saying that the Russians are madder than hell," Serrano interrupted. "Those files also strongly suggest that HYDRA infiltrated the Soviet intelligence services as thoroughly as they did ours, and the insinuation that through them HYDRA used a captured American as an assassin for hire is embarrassing, at best. But, given President Putin's deep ties to the KGB, it seems incredibly unlikely that he never knew, or at least heard, about it."

Steve's eyebrows rose at the implication. "Are we suggesting that the _President of Russia_ is a HYDRA operative?"

The idea was terrifying. Even after their decline as a world power after the end of the Cold War, the Russians possessed a huge and effective military arsenal, both conventional and nuclear. If their leadership was under HYDRA's control...

"It's a possibility," Owens answered. "And we think that was the real purpose behind the ambassador's visit today. Not so much to explain away the existence of an old KGB ghost story as to see how much _we_ know about all this."

"The ambassador himself is almost certainly HYDRA," Serrano added. "The NSA monitored a huge uptick in communications from the Russian Embassy here in the days leading up to the launch of Pierce's Helicarriers. But, when those carriers went down, the embassy practically went dark, and several of their staff dropped off the radar completely."

"The reason we're telling _you_ this, Cap," Ellis took over. "Is because your current assignment of running down HYDRA might lead you to cells in other countries, and you need to know how dangerous this could get. HYDRA's involvement in Russia could explain some of the things we've been hearing out of Ukraine and Crimea, a few other places, and if the Russians think we know too much or are _about_ to know too much...well, there may well be a target on your back. You and your team need to be careful."

Steve nodded. "I understand, sir." Running down HYDRA was always going to be dangerous. He had no illusions about that, and had tried to impress that in Sam and Rhodey as well, when this mission started.

Owens and Serrano summarized the rest of the discussions they'd had with the ambassador, though most of it was the usual bluffs and calls that had typified American and Russian diplomacy since the end of 1945. Steve was familiar enough with that to know what was and wasn't important. Once they were finished, the President ended the meeting.

"All right," Ellis closed the file folder on his lap. "Thank you, gentlemen."

Owens and Serrano stood and excused themselves. Steve stood and nodded to each of them as they filed out.

"Care to join me for a nightcap, Captain?" Ellis said, loudly enough for the other men to hear as they exited the office. Steve played along and accepted just as loudly.

Once they were alone, Ellis poured bourbon in two glasses, offered one to Steve, and settled by his desk. "You look tired, Steve."

Steve chuckled as he accepted the glass. "It's been a long few months, Mr. President."

"Well, you've made the best of it, I think," Ellis said, leaning against the edge of the desk. "You did good work in Cleveland, not to mention Camden and Houston before that."

"I have good wingmen," Steve demurred.

Ellis smiled, but then sighed. "So. Who do you _really_ think blew that base in Missouri?"

Steve chewed his lip for a moment before answering. "Honestly? I think it was Bucky."

Ellis raised an eyebrow. "You think Barnes is going after HYDRA, too?"

"If I was in his place, I probably would. But, I can't figure out his pattern. Cleveland was obvious, and the way the man we found in Missouri described his abductor makes me think Bucky used him to get information about other bases, but— I can't tell from that yet which way he'll jump next. Agent Howard's working on getting the same information for _us_, but I'm worried that HYDRA might find out Bucky's still out there before we can catch up to him."

Humming thoughtfully, Ellis gestured with his glass. "Well, hopefully we helped you out with that, today."

At Steve's look, he clarified. "We were convinced the ambassador is HYDRA before he came to see us. We strongly hinted that _whoever_ the Winter Soldier was, he died when those carriers were destroyed. He seemed to buy it, but to be honest, he's a slimy SOB. But, _if_ he did, and that information makes it up the chain, it could give you the window you need to find your friend before they do."

Steve smiled ruefully. "I hope you're right, Mr. President."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Present Day_

_Super 8 Motel_

_Maryville, Missouri_

"Where is he?" The man growled in Sam's ear. There was a thick stench of smoke and gasoline on his attacker that burned his nostrils. The grip on his arm tightened. "_Answer_."

Sam managed to turn his head slightly, and caught a glimpse of his assailant in the room's large mirror. The glint of light off very distinctive metal brought him up short. "Bucky?"

The pressure on his arm and shoulder stilled, but didn't relent. There was a hesitance in the voice when Barnes spoke again. "Where is Steve?"

"He got called to Washington. He'll be back in the morning," Sam answered finally. When nothing changed, he tried to cover the fear in his voice with annoyance. "Can I have my arm back, now?"

Barnes was silent, but released the limb and stepped back—though he fluidly removed Sam's sidearm out of its holster as he went. Sam turned to face him, rubbing his arm gingerly. Barnes was standing outside of reach, the gun held lightly in his right hand, watching Sam closely. He was dressed in a filthy black hoodie, long hair concealed under a ball cap. He didn't look like he'd shaved in days, if not longer, and there were deep bags under the still frighteningly intense blue eyes.

"Okay, don't take this the wrong way, but are you here to kill Steve? Or _me_? 'Cause that's not a plan I can get behind."

"Why would I?" Barnes tilted his head, obviously confused.

"Well, you tried to kill him before," Sam countered. He was pressing his luck, he knew, but he needed to be sure of Barnes' intentions, just in case Steve's faith was misplaced. "Then you saved him. You seem to have some trouble making up your mind about it. Hey, I get it. Half the time I can't figure out what to do with him, either."

Barnes stared at him as though he had two heads. When he spoke, it was slow, like he was speaking to a child. "I owe him."

Like that explained everything. Of course, having met people like Romanoff and Fury and listened to the way they talked...maybe it did. Sam watched Barnes watch him, and neither of them spoke. The silence quickly became unbearable for him, but Barnes didn't seem to care at all. It seemed like he was waiting for Sam to make the next move.

That was, until Barnes shifted gears and made the next move himself. "He shouldn't be following me. It's not safe for him."

_For you either_, Sam almost said, but thought better of it. "Well, try telling _him_ that. He tends to be a little stubborn when it comes to his friends."

Barnes' gaze had shifted elsewhere in the room, but he looked up sharply at that. Apparently, Sam had hit a nerve. "I tried to kill him. I don't think I can be called that. He can't be friends with a _weapon_."

Sam detected more than a little remorse under the flat tone. Barnes' eyes said a lot that his words didn't. He softened his own tone. Steve would want him to reach out to Barnes, so that's what he did. "Steve doesn't agree."

That produced more of a response. Barnes turned his back on him for the first time, snorting softly as he wandered over toward the beds. "Steve's an idiot."

"You won't get any argument from me," Sam said, smiling to make sure Bucky knew he was joking. If he was even capable of registering that kind of thing. Sam wondered how much of the programming Barnes had shrugged off and how much was still controlling his actions.

Barnes stopped by Steve's bed, leaning over to study the drawing pad. Steve had been working on a picture before he'd left, some hills near Prague where he and the Commandoes had camped during the war. Barnes seemed entranced by it.

"You aren't afraid of me." Barnes said, almost conversationally. He glanced up at Sam. "You should be."

Sam shrugged. "Trust me, I'm two seconds from wettin' my pants over here. But, Steve would hate me if I tried anything stupid, and you'd probably kill me. So, I'm going to stand right here and behave myself."

Barnes went back to studying the drawing. Sam took a cautious step forward. Just enough to get away from the corner. He pointed to the drawing pad. "Steve was drawing that on the way here. He says it's a place you guys stayed during the war. Do you remember it?"

"No," Barnes said, a little too sharply. He pressed his metal hand against his temple, but didn't take his eyes off the image. "No...I don't."

Sam didn't need Natasha's skill set to know a lie when he heard one, but he left that alone. Bucky appeared to be in pain. "Are you feeling okay?"

Barnes dropped his hand to his side, as though embarrassed. "I'm fine."

Keeping Bucky there was the only move Sam could think to make. He'd come _looking_ for Steve, that had to mean something. Steve just needed to get here. Fast. Sam decided on another direction. "You're welcome to use the shower. Maybe take some of Steve's clothes, they'd...probably fit you. He left most of them when he flew out."

Bucky met his eyes, but just frowned. Sam pressed ahead.

"Dude, no offense, but you reek." At Barnes' deepening frown, he clarified. "You smell like a gas station. Go ahead and clean up. Steve won't mind if you take his clothes."

Sam stepped forward, intent on showing Bucky where Steve's clothes were, but was brought up short when Bucky swiftly pointed the gun at him.

"_Stay_."

Freezing in place, Sam held up his hands. _Right, no sudden moves_. "I was just— His bag is in the closet. Go ahead."

"Why?"

"I told you, you reek."

Bucky's grip on the gun tightened. "_Why?_"

Sam got it, suddenly._ Why are you doing this? _He shrugged. "Believe it or not, we're here because we want to help you. _Steve_ wants to help you."

That produced another reaction. Barnes' eyes darted around the room for a moment before settling uneasily on Sam again. "He doesn't know what he's getting into."

Sam smiled. "I can tell you with absolute certainty, that _does not_ bother him."

Barnes chewed his lip, but then motioned slightly toward Sam with the gun. "Stay there."

Keeping his eyes on Sam, Bucky stepped back to the room's small closet and found Rogers' bag, quickly and efficiently grabbing a few articles of clothing. He didn't break eye contact until he retreated into the bathroom.

Sam breathed a small sigh of relief. If he could keep stalling, maybe Steve could get back in time. He considered calling Rhodes, but if Bucky came out of the bathroom and found more people in the room, it might set him off. The guy had _powder keg_ stamped on his forehead.

He heard the shower start up a moment later. The bathroom door had been left open, and, tellingly, Sam had heard the shower curtain open but not close. Common sign of post-traumatic stress, though there was nothing common about a PTSD victim who was super-strong, super-fast killing machine.

Sam nixed that thought. Steve had gone to great pains to point out that Bucky wasn't a machine. He was a good man, just a very damaged one. Definitely more on the wounded animal side of things than on the cold-blooded killer side, if his presence there was proof of anything.

The fact was, since Washington, Bucky hadn't killed anyone that wasn't a terrorist or an egghead working for terrorists, and had actually gone out of his way to _avoid_ killing others, like the other scientists in Cleveland and the clerk there in Missouri. Plus, he had come to Captain America's room tonight, of his own free will. That had to count for something.

The water kept running, so Sam grabbed the food bag as quietly as possible and retrieved one of the hamburgers he'd bought. He still wasn't one hundred percent sure he'd live through the night, and he wasn't about to die on an empty stomach. He saved the other burger for Bucky.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

James braced his metal hand against the tiled wall of the shower, letting the water roll down his shoulders, one ear tuned in to the outer room. Something inside of him tugged at the notion of leaving the door and curtain open, a reflex maybe, but it lost out to his need to make sure nothing and no one attacked him while he was vulnerable. The handgun rested on the top of the toilet, within easy reach.

He heard Wilson fumble with the paper bag he'd brought into the room, but otherwise the other man seemed to be complying with James' order to stay put. It made sense. Wilson was a soldier, he knew how and when to follow orders.

Confronting Wilson wasn't what he'd had in mind when he'd come to the motel. He wanted—maybe needed—to see Steve and try and tell him to back off. He knew Rogers was obstinate, and would likely resist his suggestion, but he wanted to try. After weeks of gathering intel, James had enough information to hit the biggest HYDRA cells on the continent, and he intended to do just that. But, he didn't want to have Captain America on his heels, leaving himself open to HYDRA retaliation.

His mind kept returning to the drawing on Rogers' pad. The hills outside Prague. He recognized them, remembered what had happened that night.

_Why was Steve drawing it?_

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_August 1944_

_Prague, Nazi-Occupied Czechoslovakia_

The op had gone wrong from the beginning. Stark's so-called "revolutionary radar navigation unit" had put the plane completely off course and away from the planned drop zone, forcing the Commandoes to huff it twenty miles through the woods to the target, a munitions factory in the outskirts of Prague. Morita's radio was busted when he smacked into a tree on the way down. Gabe's pack had busted open on another tree, spilling their rations all over the forest floor.

Worse, a HYDRA lookout had apparently spotted them parachuting in, and every enemy soldier within fifty miles was hunting them. Steve had briefly considered calling off the mission, but the general consensus among the others was that the last thing HYDRA would expect was for them to press on and attack the factory. After a few moments berating them for being the idiots he'd promised Steve they were, Bucky had endorsed the plan.

They'd had a modicum of success once they'd reached the factory. Dum-Dum, Falsworth, and Gabe had set up a distraction on the north side of the base that was nothing short of spectacular, while Steve escorted Dernier in to plant his charges along the eastern wall of the factory itself. Three well-placed explosives dropped half the building into the Vltava, and they'd made their escape while many of the HYDRA personnel were dragging themselves up onto the muddy riverbank.

Unfortunately, things went back downhill from there. HYDRA troops had converged on the factory, and set up an ambush in the darkness of the tree line. Bucky had been picking them off as he spotted them, trying to cover Steve and Dernier's withdrawal, but he'd already had to move his sniper's nest twice, and the HYDRA presence was only getting thicker as the minutes dragged on.

Bucky watched through his scope as Steve made it to the first waypoint, a stone well with a broken crank. From there it was one hundred yards north, then behind a large stone outcropping, into a clearing where the others would rendezvous. Steve and Dernier paused to make sure no one had seen them. Bucky swept his rifle along the path they were going to follow, scanning for HYDRA soldiers— _Uh-oh_. Two soldiers were moving toward the factory from the trees, right across the escape path.

Silently, Bucky took aim, pausing to bring the scope into better focus. He made a slight adjustment for the wind, then gently squeezed the trigger. The rightmost trooper went down and didn't move again. The other reacted faster than Bucky had hoped, and dove for cover. He scanned back and forth, searching for the hidden German, when suddenly the man came into view behind some foliage, pointing one of the larger HYDRA energy rifles right at Bucky's nest.

Bucky frantically moved to line up his shot, but before he could adjust the angle he saw a blur of red, white and blue as Steve's shield spun in from behind the soldier and dropped him with a _clang_. Barnes swung his rifle back in time to see Steve catch his shield effortlessly. He smiled, making a mental note to tease Steve mercilessly about his throwing posture later.

They had different ways of saying 'thank you' than most normal people.

Abruptly, Steve's facial expression changed, and he gestured with his fist, a silent warning signal to Bucky. He rolled to look behind him, but before he could turn, hands grabbed him from behind and he was flipping head over heels. He landed on his back, hard enough to knock the wind out of him, and stared dazedly as two HYDRA soldiers wearing their standard helmet and face masks appeared over him. He struggled to get up, but a rifle butt to the face downed him again.

He was busy seeing stars when he felt himself lifted up and carried across the rough forest terrain. The two soldiers were talking to each other in German. Bucky caught a word here and there, his rudimentary knowledge slowly built up by the campaign in North Africa and the weeks in captivity. He sounded like an idiot speaking it, but he could usually translate what he heard pretty well.

That was not a comfort at the moment. The troopers were talking about what to do with him. He didn't catch much, dazed as he was, but he distinctly heard the words "capture," "Captain," "alive," and "laboratory." They rounded a clump of trees and Bucky saw four more hulking, broad-shouldered HYDRA soldiers and a waiting transport truck. They were taking him back to one of Zola's labs.

_No! No-no-no!_ Bucky wasn't going back, and he wasn't going to let them take any of the others, either. The all-encompassing panic gave way to a spike of fury, and Bucky yanked his right hand free, before slamming his fist back into the man's face. The soldier went flying, mask falling from his face and he rebounded off a thick tree trunk.

All the feelings of nausea and disorientation from the blow to his head faded quickly. He rounded on the second man, sweeping his legs out from under him and dropping him with a single punch. Neither of his captors got back up, but the four by the truck charged him.

Bucky drew his knife from the sheath on his belt and met them halfway. They were moving...slowly. Almost sluggishly. He got past the first soldier's arms and drove his knife in under the man's ribs, then he backhanded the next nearest, knocking him to his knees. The third managed to strike him along the jaw, but he Bucky got hold of the straps of his combat harness and spun, flinging the man through the air and clear over the parked truck.

The fourth grabbed him from behind, but Bucky managed to get turned around, bring his knee up into the man's groin and then propel him face-first into a rock. The second man, who had staggered to his feet, pulled his Luger and fired. His aim was off, but Bucky felt a sharp pain in his left side. He reared back and kicked the trooper in the chest, catapulting him into the side of a tree.

Bucky stood, panting slightly—but not nearly out of breath, which was strange—among the six unconscious soldiers. Well, five unconscious and one very dead. His side was wet with blood, but not much. _Probably only a flesh wound_. The specially designed fabrics Stark's people had used in his jacket were good for slowing and sometimes even deflecting small caliber bullets. He'd been lucky.

He frowned as he looked around. All six had been twice his size, almost as big as Steve was now. He wasn't even sweating. _How did_—

"_Bucky!_"

He heard Steve pounding through the underbrush before he saw him emerge from the trees, shield at the ready. Bucky saw Steve very clearly, even in the gloom.

"Right here," Bucky called. Steve was already striding toward him.

"Bucky! Are you—" Steve halted a few feet away, taking in the scene and the six downed enemies. "—Okay?"

Barnes shrugged, looking around at the unmoving bodies himself. "Yeah. My face hurts, but...yeah."

Steve didn't look pleased to hear it. He was glancing around, slack-jawed, furrowed brow visible even through his helmet. "Wha— How did you...?"

"Oh...uh, I don't know. I guess they didn't count on running into Brooklyn's reigning amateur middleweight boxing champ in the woods tonight..." He grinned and intentionally used the fake title Steve had given him in high school after he'd taken on two bullies after school one day, hoping to break the tension of the moment. Fortunately, it seemed to work. 

"Yeah, I guess not," Steve mused. The moment didn't last long, as Steve's eyes fell on Bucky's side. "Were you _hit_?"

He reached out to lift the jacket, but Bucky smacked his hand away. "It's fine, Steve. Just a scratch. I'll bandage it up on the way back.

Steve looked mildly hurt, and Bucky felt like an asshole for shutting him out, but he stood his ground even while softening his tone. "_Really_. I'm fine. You got here in time."

Bucky quickly changed the subject. He didn't want to talk about whatever Rogers' brain was clearly working toward. "Everybody okay down there?"

"Yeah," Steve muttered absently, then cleared his throat. "Yeah. Dum-Dum has a black eye, but other than that..."

"Good," Bucky declared, using his sergeant's voice. He marched past Steve back in the direction of his lost rifle. "Let's get outta here before these jokers stir up."

The distraction was successful, and after a few steps he let Steve lead the way back. Bucky glanced over his shoulder one last time, wondering.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Present Day_

_Super 8 Motel_

_Maryville, Missouri_

James shook off the memory. It felt odd, like he was remembering someone else's life. He analyzed it, as objectively as he could, like he did all his recovered memories. His fighting form had been bad, sloppy. The second soldier should have been properly neutralized before he'd engaged the third.

But, his mind's eye kept zeroing in on Rogers' face. He'd clearly known something was wrong. The Barnes he knew shouldn't have been able to fight his way out of that situation.

Why hadn't he said anything?

Or had he?

James couldn't remember.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Chasing Ghosts, Part I**

**Chapter 7**

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_That water's gotta by ice cold by now_, Sam mused to himself. Barnes was still in the shower. Sam hadn't left the corner, as instructed. But, he had slid one of the dinette table's chairs over and sat down. No reason to stay standing, after all.

Finally, the water stopped running, and a few minutes of shuffling sounds later, Barnes emerged from the bathroom wearing a pair of Steve's jeans—rolled up a bit at the bottom to make up for Rogers' slightly longer legs—and carrying a shirt in his metal hand. Sam got a look at the entirety of the cybernetic appendage for the first time. He eyed the severely scarred seam where the metal shoulder met the flesh of Bucky's chest while Barnes's dried off.

"Does it hurt?" Sam ventured to ask. "The arm?"

"No," Barnes replied curtly. He glanced up at Sam a moment later and his face shifted slightly. "A little...sometimes. I'm used to it."

Sam nodded, but didn't say anything else about that. He pointed to the food bag on the bed next to where Bucky was standing. "There's another burger in there, if you're hungry."

Barnes eyed the bag for a moment, then Sam. His eyes narrowed. "Drugged?"

"Nah," Sam laughed gently. "I wouldn't want to tell Steve that I'd tried to poison his best friend. He'd frown on that." He made a point of saying "friend" as much as possible, trying to drive the point home.

"Probably wouldn't work on me, anyway," Barnes said quietly.

Watching Sam warily, Barnes cautiously took the hamburger out and unwrapped the aluminum foil. He sniffed the sandwich a few times, then carefully took a small bite. Sam watched him chew and swallow rather mechanically at first, then he tore into the burger like he was starving—which, if he was even close to having Steve's metabolism, he probably was. The whole sandwich was gone in under a minute.

He wordlessly discarded the empty wrapper and stepped back into the bathroom. Sam heard water running again, for several minutes, then Barnes was back in view, stuffing his earlier clothes into a canvas bag. He moved back to the bed and tugged on a black T-shirt that was emblazoned with Captain America's shield. Sam stifled a laugh. _Why does _Steve_ have one of those?_ Barnes covered it with one of Steve's dark blue hoodies.

"Shoulders are a little big," Barnes said, more to himself than Sam. He tested his range of movement in the clothing, then zipped up the hoodie. His body language displayed all the signs of someone getting ready to bolt.

"You should stay here, rest up," Sam suggested. "Steve's on his way back, he'll be here in a few hours at most."

"I can't stay," Barnes said, voice firm.

"He wants to see you," Sam tried again, hoping beyond hope that he might get through.

"I want to see _him_," Barnes said softly, pausing in pulling his boots on, just for a moment. "But I can't...I can't stay."

Sam cursed silently, but he could no more stop Barnes from leaving when he wanted to than he could stop Steve. He almost regretted not calling Rhodes, even though that would have destroyed any bridges Sam had built between him and Barnes tonight. He decided to help where he could, and face Steve's disappointment when it came. He slowly pulled out his wallet, telegraphing every move as he held it up and tossed it over to Barnes, who caught it in one hand.

"My wallet. Take the cash."

Barnes stared at it for a moment, then looked back at Sam, visibly troubled. "Why are you _helping_ me?"

Sam shrugged. "You're Steve's friend. _I'm_ Steve's friend. I guess that makes me _your_ friend, too."

"I don't have friends," Barnes said. He sounded like he believed it.

"Well," Sam replied. "You've got at least one. Maybe two or three, now."

Bucky looked troubled by that, but he took the cash as instructed, placing the wallet down on the bed. He gathered up the clothing bag and headed for the door.

Sam spoke again as Barnes got next to him, feeling more than a little like he'd failed tonight. He didn't meet Barnes' eyes. "Anything you want me to tell Steve when he gets here?"

"Tell him to stay away." Bucky said. "It's not safe."

Sam nodded once. "I will. He won't listen, though. I think you know that."

"_Make_ him," Bucky urged, stopping to face him. "Keep Steve safe. It's all Bucky—it's all _I_ ever wanted."

Barnes turned to leave, but stopped again, looking back at the bed, and the drawing pad. "And...ask him..."

Sam glanced between him and the drawing, asking softly. "Ask him what?"

Barnes turned to him, looking so utterly lost for a moment that it made Sam's breath hitch.

"Ask him if he knew."

Then he was gone.

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Super 8 Motel_

_Maryville, Missouri_

_The Next Day_

"How long was he here?" Steve asked, breathing heavy for reasons Sam knew had nothing to do with running from the car to the room. Steve had set a ground speed record covering the 78 miles from the airport, Sam was sure of that.

"Maybe an hour," Sam said. "I tried to get him to stay, but..."

Steve let out a groan of pure frustration and dropped onto the edge of the bed. Ironically, it was the one Bucky had been standing near. "What did he say? Wha—what did he want?"

Sam filled him in on the entire encounter, including Bucky cleaning up and taking some clothes. Then he got to the part he dreaded, because he knew how Steve would hear it. "I think he came here to see _you_, Steve." He continued quickly before Steve could speak. "But, listen, he said he wanted me to keep you away from him."

"Why?" Steve asked.

"He said it wasn't safe for you. That's all. He just said he wanted me to keep you out of it—whatever _it_ is. What's _coming_, I guess."

Steve pondered that for a moment, frown lines on his face deepening. "He's going after HYDRA on his own. _Idiot_."

Sam refrained from mentioning that Bucky had said the same about him, settling for a grin. "Yeah, I'm sensing a few recurring themes with you two."

Rhodes, who had been silent thus far, spoke up. He was using the new forensics software Stark had programmed into the Patriot armor to scan the room for any clues as to where Bucky might be holed up. "I got nothing, here. Just some footprint impressions in the carpet. He's good at not leaving traces."

"Did the FBI get the map locations from McAllister, yet?" Steve asked suddenly. "Maybe we can guess at where he's going next."

"Yeah, last night," Rhodey answered. "I asked Tony and JARVIS to start monitoring those areas for us."

"Well, that's something, at least." Steve didn't look satisfied, but he had calmed a little. He looked back at Sam. "Did he say anything else?"

"Well, actually," Sam reached over and retrieved the drawing tablet, offering it to Rogers. "I think he was looking at this when I came in, and he seemed...I don't know, entranced by it. I think maybe he recognized this place."

Steve stared at the drawing. "Prague."

"Yeah. He asked me to ask you 'did you know.' Any idea what that means?"

Steve's froze. His eyes widened a little.

Sam sat on the opposite bed. "Did something happen there?"

After a moment, Steve set the pad aside with a sigh. "You know how I told you Bucky never wanted to talk about what Zola did to him? I always just thought he was...embarrassed or humiliated by it. Buck never liked to talk about his own problems, and he _hated_ pity...after a while I just let it go. We were always on the move, another raid, another mission. There was never any time, but...Prague was different."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_August 1944_

_Twenty miles Northwest of Prague _

_Nazi-Occupied Czechoslovakia_

After a very rushed escape and another exhausting march, they found an easily defensible spot in the forest and sacked out for a few hours. There was no moon, and the shadows of the trees completely obscured them from view, but they kept a lookout, rotating through as each of them caught a few winks. Stark's plane would be waiting at the extraction point along the border at dawn—at least that was the plan.

Steve stuck his head through his tent flap. Bucky was lying on his back in the second sleeping bag—the Army frowned on officers and NCOs bunking together, but he and Bucky didn't care. They'd been roommates for years, and besides it was one less tent they needed to carry.

In the faint light from the lantern, Steve noticed Bucky's eyes were open, and the liquor bottle on the ground beside him was half empty. That in itself was troubling. Bucky had been drinking a lot recently—ever since Italy, really—but, oddly, it never seemed to slow him down. The others, who knew what Bucky had gone through, never dared say anything about it, even when it went on behind the lines like now.

Crawling inside and closing the flap behind him, Steve sat cross-legged across from Bucky, holding up a gold can that was liberally brushed with olive green camouflage paint. "I come bearing your daily C-ration, pal-o-mine."

Bucky grunted in response, his eyes still fixed somewhere on the tent wall. Steve tried to keep up a happy expression, but he'd been worried about Bucky all night. He'd been silent since his near-capture, and had withdrawn to the tent immediately after they'd set up their perimeter. Usually, he was the one taking the first guard shift. Steve pressed on, determined to get a real response, even an irritated one.

"Let's see what's on tonight's menu. It is..." He popped the key off the bottom of the can with a flourish and opened the lid, immediately regretting his choice. "_Ugh_, meat and vegetable hash. Sorry, Buck. Maybe one of the other guys has one of the stew cans. I can check...?"

Bucky's mouth twisted into a frown, his first reaction since Steve sat down. He squinted slightly. "Do you think we'll make it out of this, Steve?"

Steve blinked, taken by surprise. The knot of worry in his stomach tightened, but he forced his voice to stay upbeat. "'Course I do. We've got HYDRA on the ropes."

Another grunt was the only response. Bucky's eyes were staring at something else, something far away. Steve's face fell. He'd been seeing that expression on Bucky's face a lot since his capture in Italy. Since _Zola_. "Why did you ask me that? What are you thinking about Buck?"

"Nothin'."

Steve nudged Bucky's elbow playfully. "Come on. You gotta be thinking about _something_."

Bucky raised his eyebrows slightly. "No, really. I'm not thinking at all. My mind's a total blank. It's...strange."

That knot of worry in Steve's stomach grew uncomfortably larger. He reached for the hem of his friend's shirt. "I'm gonna check your wound, okay? Make sure it's not bleeding again."

"It's fine," Barnes said idly, eyes still holding that thousand yard stare. He didn't resist when Steve pulled his shirt open and peeled back the bandage Bucky had applied himself after they escaped the site of battle. Steve opened his mouth to say something, then stopped.

There was no wound. Steve glanced at Bucky with a frown. "I thought you were hit?"

Bucky finally looked at him, but his eyes still weren't focused. "Just a scratch...I guess it healed already."

"Your shirt's soaked through with blood," Steve said, eyes narrowing. "You put a bandage on it."

Bucky blinked, and for the first time since sitting down, Steve got the sense that his friend was actually conscious and in the tent with him. "I—I guess I was wrong."

Steve shook his head. He'd seen that look on Barnes' face before. When he was lying through his teeth or swindling some schmo out of money in a card game. Steve wouldn't have it. He'd known Barnes too long not to see it.

Bucky laughed, a little nervously, and sat up. "Honestly, Steve, I must have been wrong. It was _dark_. I thought I got hit, but maybe I didn't. I stabbed one of those guys, maybe the blood is his."

"Don't lie to me, Buck."

Bucky shook his head and rolled his eyes. "I tell you everything, Stevie."

"_Bucky_," Steve said warningly.

"Hand to God, I tell you everything," Bucky leaned over, whispering conspiratorially. "Like when me and Vickie Marlowe—"

Steve immediately threw up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, _okay_! I believe you."

Bucky genuinely giggled. The sound was music to Steve. _Still_... He sobered, and scooted over to sit directly beside Barnes. He reached over, grabbed the liquor bottle and took a long swig from it, then smacked it down between them, throwing down the proverbial gauntlet as if they were sitting on their couch in Brooklyn on the rare occasion that Bucky had gotten dumped. Once the challenge was brought, they weren't allowed to lie to each other. Bucky's own rules. "What's wrong?"

Bucky laughed, again a bit nervously, but Steve could see on his face that he knew he was being called out. He shook his head, glancing down at the bottle. "_Nothing_. I just..."

"What?" Steve pressed, quietly.

Bucky's eyes shifted to the far side of the tent. He wasn't trying to smile anymore. "I just— I just want to go _home_, Steve. I'm tired. I'm _so tired_."

Steve absorbed that for a moment. Bucky _looked_ tired. He also looked a lot older than he had just over a year before, when they'd said goodbye at the docks. Steve slid his arm around Bucky's shoulders—still an odd feeling, since Bucky had been the taller one for so many years. "Look, let me talk to Phillips. Get you shipped Stateside—"

Bucky stiffened, turning and glaring at him. "No!"

"You've done enough, Buc—"

"_Steve_. _No_. Don't you dare!" Steve opened his mouth, only to end up with Barnes' finger in his face. "_Don't you dare_. I'm not leaving you on this God-forsaken continent. That's final!"

"Okay. Okay." Steve held up a hand in surrender. It was crazy, but for a moment he felt like he was staring into the snarling face of someone else. The angry visage melted back into his friend a moment later, like nothing had happened. "Listen, if you want to talk—"

"What I _want_," Bucky interrupted, sounding more like himself for the first time all night. He reached down and corked the bottle. "Is to go outside to talk Dum-Dum out of his stew, 'cause I ain't eating the shitty vegetable mush in that can. Then, my best friend is finally going to tell me his plan for landing one Miss Peggy Carter. Are we clear, Captain?"

Steve pursed his lips and favored Bucky with the extremely patient stare he'd developed over the years. "I told you, I don't have a plan for that..."

"That's funny, 'cause I read somewhere you _always_ have a plan, Cap."

**CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS**

_Present Day_

_Super 8 Motel_

_Maryville, Missouri_

"You think he was already showing the signs of...whatever Zola did to him?" Sam asked.

"I know Zola gave him something, some version of what Erskine gave to me, it just took longer to work. We know it was far enough along to save his life when he fell." Steve looked over at Sam, a grim expression clouding his face. "I know he got shot that night. But when I checked a few hours later, he was _completely_ healed."

"Did you suspect anything at the time?" Sam asked.

"I...didn't know what to think. Bucky never wanted to talk about it, and I was too—I was too scared to ask. Bucky was a hero, Sam. I was...just playing a part."

Sam frowned darkly, wanting to reach over and smack Rogers in the back of his thick head. "You're _weren't playing a_ _part_, Steve."

He knew Rogers wasn't hearing him, though. Steve was spiraling down a dark hole, and Sam wasn't sure anything was going to pull him back up. Not until they found Barnes, anyway. Steve spoke again, head hanging dejectedly. "If I'd known the whole story, if I'd had any idea what was happening to him, I _never_ would have stopped searching that canyon. You have to believe that, Sam."

Sam rested his elbows on his knees, leaning into Steve's space a bit. "I know, man."

"I need you to believe that, Sam," Steve said suddenly, pain-filled eyes burrowing into Sam's. "'Cause I'm not sure he will."

Sam blinked. For all the searching and racing across country they'd done the past few months, all the close calls and near misses, for all Steve's determination to find Barnes, it had never occurred to Sam until that moment. Steve wasn't going to stop until he found his friend...but when that moment finally came, he might be afraid to face him.

TBC

A/N:


	8. Chapter 8

**Chasing Ghosts, Part I**

**Chapter 8**

_Present Day_

_Somewhere in the Canadian Rockies_

_British Columbia, Canada_

"Foul creatures!" Thor snarled as he slammed Mjolnir down into the midsection of a multi-legged HYDRA battle drone. Mechanical components exploded as the hammer channeled an immensely bright bolt of lightning through the robot. "They lack the courage to meet in battle so they send these soulless contraptions against us!"

"_Don't let Dum-E hear you talk like that_," Tony replied through the comm, roaring past overhead in his gold and red Mk 43 armor.

Thor stepped up beside Steve just as the Iron Patriot approached from the other side, fresh from his own fight. Steve tapped the side of his helmet to activate his comm link. "Falcon, you find the entrance yet?"

The sound of anti-aircraft fire echoed through the channel first, before Sam's strained voice. "_Uh, not yet, Cap. Heavy fire on the north side_."

Steve frowned. "Stark, can you give him some cover?"

"_Roger that_."

The HYDRA base was snuggled in a valley on the northern end of the Canadian Rockies. Stark's satellites hadn't been able to pinpoint it, but the information Agent Howard had wrung out of Patrick McAllister in Missouri had pointed to it being one of the biggest HYDRA facilities left in North America.

There had been several others, but they'd been systematically obliterated in a series of explosions, fires, and in one unsettling case, a bloodbath. The Winter Soldier's handiwork, Steve was convinced. Unfortunately, they had been one step behind each time. He'd spent the last two months praying that Bucky would slow down long enough for him to catch up. Prayers hadn't worked, so far. The last known base in the U.S. or Canada was in the valley where they now stood, and Steve had hurriedly assembled the Avengers—minus Natasha and Bruce—partially in an effort to get there before Bucky.

That much, he seemed to have succeeded at, since his friend was no where to be found. Less successful had been their element of surprise, since HYDRA had been on high alert when they'd arrived, and they'd encountered a small army of battle drones and fixed weapon emplacements all along the valley.

Three robotic tank drones rolled into the clearing, directly across from where Steve, Thor, and Rhodey stood. They bristled with gun barrels and metal claw arms.

"_Didn't we leave this party in Cleveland?_" Rhodes asked, twin miniguns already swiveling into position to open fire. The three mini-tanks accelerated forward, engines roaring as they charged across the clearing. Rhodey started blasting one with his guns, as Thor charged the rightmost drone. Steve took the middle, launching himself off a downed tree trunk, keeping his shield out front as the robot fired on him. Bullets ricocheted off the vibranium disc as he did a flip and landed on top of the robot's center turret.

One of the claw arms snapped at him viciously. Steve sliced left with his shield and severed the arm at its middle joint. As the offending arm fell away, Steve slashed downward, using the edge of the shield to cut open a hatch above the main gun assembly, revealing a deep compartment filled with wiring and circuitry.

Gazing inside, Steve shrugged. "They always pull the red one in the movies," he quipped to himself, then reached in and grabbed a clump of red wires and yanked. The drone shuddered, then started turning and twisting violently in a tight circle. The sudden motion flung Steve clear. Unfortunately, the out of control machine kept firing, spraying bullets in every direction.

Steve huddled against the tree trunk, behind his shield, wincing as machine gun rounds pelted the outside of the disc. Several seconds went by until he heard the familiar _fwoop_ pass over his head. One of Hawkeye's exploding arrows imbedded itself into the top of the tank, the blast ripping it apart.

"_That was funny, Cap_," Barton's voice came through the comm. The archer was keeping watch on their position, shifting around the area as necessary to cover them. "_I recorded it for our next party at the Tower._"

"You're a little twisted, Barton," Steve retorted without heat. Clint had had a rough two years after New York. Like Thor's friend Selvig, the psychotropic aftereffects of the Tesseract had hit Barton hard. Fortunately for him—_unlike_ Selvig—S.H.I.E.L.D.'s doctors had been there to help. Still, it had been a difficult year, and Clint had volunteered for duty in the Middle East and some self-imposed exile afterward. It was nice to hear him joking around again, in any circumstances.

"_Incoming, Captain,_" Hawkeye said, all business, ignoring Steve's remark. "_Five hostiles—Jesus, they're big._"

Steve heard the repulsor engines before he saw the source. Five vaguely man-shaped...things landed around the perimeter of the clearing, surrounding Steve and the others. They looked like Tony's armored suits, but more hulking, bristling with visible weaponry. The narrow, hollowed out abdomens seemed to preclude any human pilots, however.

"_What the— Tony, are you seeing these?_" Rhodes said. "_They look like—_"

"_Hammer drones_," Stark replied, sounding personally affronted.

"_I thought we got all those in Queens,_" Rhodes replied.

"_You did, Colonel,_" JARVIS' voice filtered through the comms. "_Unfortunately, Justin Hammer was freed from a Federal penitentiary six months ago by unknown forces. There are indications in files Captain Rogers has retrieved that suggest he may now be working for HYDRA._"

"_Wonderful,_" Rhodes muttered. "_The Feds kept _that_ quiet._"

Iron Man swooped by overhead, being pursued by more of the man-sized robots. "All_ they had to do was keep him in jail..._" He complained. "_Hold on to your socks, buddy, there's more where those came from!_"

"More machines," Thor grumbled. He stepped out in front of Steve and Rhodes and hefted Mjolnir into the air. A swirling vortex of dark clouds spontaneously formed overhead, and the hammer began drawing lightning to itself. After a few seconds of buildup, Thor aimed the hammer at the advancing drones and a fusillade of lightning bolts lanced out and enveloped them. The drones staggered backward, but other than that, the assault seemed to do little but scorch their armored shells.

As the electric barrage faded, the drones straightened, and blasts of pure energy emitted from their now glowing eye ports. The sizzling blasts slammed into the ground around Thor's feet and sent all three men flying back. The Iron Patriot managed to stay on his feet, but Thor and Steve landed on their backs on the other side of the tree trunk.

"Bad idea," Steve muttered. The drones seemed to have absorbed the lightning, much as Tony's armor had in Germany when they'd first met Thor.

The Asgardian shot him a chastened look. "Indeed."

"_Get in close, so they can't use their guns!_" Rhodey instructed, already racing toward the oncoming drones. Six more had appeared behind them, emerging from the tree line. They'd gone from outnumbered to completely surrounded very quickly.

The Iron Patriot engaged three of them, guns blazing, while Thor brought one down and engaged another, the heavy _clang_ of Mjolnir striking metal echoing along the valley sides. Arrows started raining down, some exploding on contact with the drones' armor, some imbedding themselves into various robotic limbs and weapons pods and superheating them. But, while accurate, Hawkeye's arrow fire wasn't enough. Three were left free to attack unhindered.

Steve charged forward, dropping suddenly just outside of arm's reach of one drone and sliding between its widely spaced legs. He hopped onto his feet behind it, swinging his shield across, severing several exposed hydraulic lines in the machine's abdomen. But, rather than being crippled, the drone's torso spun 180 degrees so that it was once again facing Steve.

Unable to use its guns at such close range, the drone switched to a more physical strategy. Its thick, heavily armored arms swung out, one catching Steve hard in the midsection and propelling him backward into a tree. Winded, he barely got the shield up in time to block the barrage of bullets from the drone's chest mounted cannons. He ran toward it, getting inside its gun range once more, then leapt into the air, somersaulting overhead. As he passed, he swiped the shield in a downward arc, catching the robot's shoulder joint and severing its left arm.

The drone staggered, seemingly unable to process the sudden loss of one appendage. Steve took advantage of the seconds-long distraction and swiped the knee joints. The drone's upper legs and body dropped, face down. Servos whirred loudly as it tried and failed to spin itself around, only its legs rotating wildly. In another setting, Steve might have laughed at the sight.

Mechanical noises from behind dragged his attention away from the downed robot, though. He spun around, finding himself face to faceplate with two more of them. One of them had been modified with spinning blades in place of its metal hands, the other had a huge mallet-like attachment. That one attacked first.

The giant bludgeon descended fast. Steve raised his shield in time, but the powerful impact still drove him down to one knee. Another blow almost dislodged the shield from his hands. The second drone was moving in as well, spinning blades out and ready to cut him to ribbons.

As the first drone raised its bludgeon again, its head suddenly split open, metal and plastic spraying out the opposite side. A microsecond later, Steve heard the loud report of a gun. The second drone's head exploded in the same fashion, followed by the sound of another gun shot.

Steve's brain was still in fight or flight mode, having been moments from death just a second before, but he was able to put together "sniper rifle" in his mind as an explanation. He sighed in relief and tapped his comm link. "Thanks, Barton."

There was silence at first, then he heard Clint's voice. It sounded odd. "Uh...that wasn't _me_, Cap."

Steve blinked. He looked up along the opposite side of the valley, where he'd assumed Hawkeye had been sniping for them. He saw a small glint of light in the distance, but it faded almost immediately. The sun reflecting off metal...

Sam's voice cut in to his thoughts. "_We found the entrance, Cap! Northeast side_."

"Tell Colonel Talbot that he can move his team in," Steve ordered, mind suddenly very much off the battle. Thor and Rhodes had destroyed the other drones. "Stark, clear a path for them."

"_I'd like to lodge an objection, Captain!_" Tony's sarcastic tone still registered despite the electronic filters of his suit. "_Since Talbot _did_ steal from Stark Industries and I'm not sure he's entirely _trustworthy_—_"

"Complain to me later, Tony, just do it," Steve interrupted. He pointed up to the ridge where he'd seen the reflection, knowing that Hawkeye was watching him. "Clint, do you see that patch of trees, about half a click up on the left?"

"_Got it, I'll meet you there_," Clint replied curtly. Steve knew he'd already be moving. He started running as well, dodging debris and downed robots as he went. "Thor, secure this area. Rhodey scan those drones and see if you can tell me what dropped them."

Steve registered the affirmatives but said no more, running at full speed across the forest floor. He leapt across the small stream that flowed along the center of the valley and continued up the hill beyond. He arrived at the small patch of foliage at almost the same time as Barton, who looked over the tiny clearing with his well-trained eye. Even Steve recognized that the small, flat rock outcropping would be a perfect sniper's nest.

"_I found some slugs, Captain,_" Rhodey said. "_High-powered rifle, for sure. My forensics program isn't detecting any rifling...suggests maybe an old Soviet design_."

"There's nothing here, Steve," Clint reported. "No brass. Not even a footprint."

Steve stepped over toward the edge of the outcropping, and noticed a small, folded scrap of paper jammed between two rocks. He reached down and snagged it. When he read what was written on it. he froze.

"Are you thinking it was him, Steve?" Clint asked, keeping his microphone off for privacy.

"I know it was," Steve replied, mouth tight.

"How?"

Steve held up the paper scrap. "'Cause he left me a note."

Barton's eyebrows raised. "A note? What does it say?"

Steve glanced down at the paper and reread the words, printed in blocky letters he recognized anywhere.

**Stop following me Steve. Please.**

**End Part One**

_A/N: Colonel Talbot was recently seen on Agents of Shield, but he was also in the Incredible Hulk video game, where he stole a suit from Stark to hunt down Bruce Banner. The movies didn't mention this, but in the show Coulson clearly had some bad history with the man. I'm referencing that above._

_This is not the end of the story. Just the end of the beginning of it._


End file.
